


a broke machine just blowin' steam

by themikeymonster



Series: brokemachine!verse [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky and Steve are Awful Celestial Ouroboros Boys, Bucky and Tony are Too Sleep Deprived for These Many Feels, Bucky's Incredibly Jealous of Himself (both of him are), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Developing Relationship, Dimension Travel, Historically Inaccurate Science, Implied One-Sided James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, M/M, Time Travel, Tony Doesn't Have Time For Your Vacuum Tube Bullshit, Tony Stark Asks That You Imagine Him In Hotpants, Tony Takes Steve to Task like a Truant Schoolboy, plot holes, so much ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 66,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12578500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themikeymonster/pseuds/themikeymonster
Summary: Given a choice between Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, Tony is pretty sure most worlds would choose him to search for a misplaced Winter Soldier. After all: look at what Rogers did to their own for his Bucky's sake.What he fails to account for is the wormhole's destination, which happens to be the middle of WWII. It's a nightmare come to life... for the Winter Soldier as well as Tony Stark.--Tony's life doesn't flash before his eyes or anything like that. He's almost died too many times to still have that nonsense going on. He has a split second to think:well, of course,and also,fuck, I promised Barnes I'd get him home.Of course it would happen like this. Ever since Rogers walked into his life, Tony has been destined to be killed by him because of Barnes.The shield is almost instantly caught in a metal hand. The Soldier twists all of Sergeant Barnes on the axis of his shoulder, landing him roughly on the floor face down, and slices the shield down. It ricochets off the cement floor and sticks to the roof of the hangar with the eerie sound of shearing metal.





	1. stars bursting in air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Sgt Barnes tries to shoot - well, himself, Tony stalls like a plane pointed straight up, and the Captain uses the wrong words, motherfucker

* * *

 

Tony never thought he'd be relieved to see Captain America go flying backwards through the air. Then again, he'd never thought that he'd find himself in the middle of the WWII battlefront, either. 

The crude, heavy boom of a fuel explosion shakes the HYDRA base, mostly concussive force and heat. Tony's chest aches more than his head rings; he clutches his chest, the bolts between the false sternum and ribs throbbing. He scrambles across the damp, cold ground, keeping cover for precious seconds, outwaiting another explosion. He can't risk having his head ducked  _ too _ long. This was a lucky break - although, given the size of Barnes' grudge against HYDRA, even if he escaped, he'd be right back to raiding the bases. He might be more subtle about it, though, and Tony - well, Tony didn't have the resources he'd need to find him if that happened. 

If he lost the Soldier now, then coming this far would have been completely pointless. 

Well, not completely, Tony amends hastily as he lurches to his feet. If need be, he can hold out until the others get in contact with him and maybe send him some actual real tech that might help him hunt Barnes down,  _ for once. _ It's just that he'd rather have all his ducks in as straight of a row as possible when they finally get into contact. 

"What the  _ fuck, _ " Sergeant James Barnes says, hovering over where Cap is sprawled in the dirt, flailing around a bit like a turtle turned on its back. It's pretty much everyone's reaction the first time they see the Winter Soldier. 

"Stay back," Tony barks, automatically shooting his hand to the side like he can hold both the Sergeant and Captain back from twenty feet away. The Winter Soldier is in fine form today, not that Tony had been expecting otherwise, given the  _ three other bases _ he blew sky high on his lonesome - he's managed to fuck up the aramid jacket, zippers ripped free of the main compartments R&D had sewn in to satisfy the Soldier's paranoia. Somewhere along the line, he's found a patch of dark leather, which he's tied to his face, and a pair of goggles. Which. Welp. 

At least the Soldier doesn't seem  _ surprised _ to see Cap and the Sergeant, striding into the open and armed to the teeth. That's almost a good sign, except things going well at  _ this _ time is pretty unlikely, in Tony's experience. 

"Hey! Winter Wonderland! Really wish you wouldn't actively trigger yourself like this!" Tony shouts, cautiously putting his other hand out to show that he has no weapons at all. The Soldier doesn't so much as glance at him, which. Rude. What the fuck. Granted Tony wasn't in his suit, but Barnes has filled him in that HYDRA programmed Tony as a threat. A few of the  _ other _ times the Soldier's been out to play, he's certainly put Tony on his ass at the slightest provocation. 

In the next moment, the Soldier is raising his gun because,  _ of course, _ Sergeant Barnes isn't going to stand by after someone has knocked the Captain back like that - Tony doesn't want to think about what seeing Steve Rogers go flying backwards like that will do for Commando morale. The Sergeant has moved to provide cover, and Tony has noticed a certain strong resemblance before, but this is making him a bit dizzy. 

Maybe that's why Tony flails forward, yelping, "Hey, hey, hey, hey!" Almost immediately, he identifies this as a bad course of action, but if anything, Tony's really good at committing to high-risk, high-reward plans. "Don't," Tony says loudly, pointing at the Soldier, "shoot me, I'm not into gunplay, I never have been, I don't know why people keep thinking I am." 

" _ Move, _ " Sergeant Barnes barks from behind him. 

Tony rolls his eyes hard. Barnes  _ would _ try to kill himself, wouldn't he? "We're all actually on the same side," he says, cutting only a quick look back at the Sergeant. Most of his attention goes right back to the Soldier, because as Natasha said once: the Soldier will shoot through people to get to his target. "It's just sometimes he violently objects to stars and stripes, and can I just say, seeing that uniform, I totally understand why. I'm a patriotically minded man myself, but there is a thing such as going too far." 

Of course, even new to this, Steve Rogers is too stupid to stay down. He groans, finally getting over onto his side and trying to heave himself to his feet. Tony risks a couple of glances back at him since the Soldier is no longer advancing, nor is he shooting  _ through _ Tony in an attempt to kill either the Sergeant or the Captain. The Captain is moving like an old man, even though he really  _ is _ only like twenty-six right now, which -  _ fuck _ \- means Tony can't make jokes about centennials at him. 

Tony sympathizes with his difficulty in getting his breath back and uncurling from his hurt slump, though. Tony, too, has taken the Winter Soldier's shoulder to his stomach. It's roughly like being hit by a car. Which Tony has also experienced, though in the suit, so he feels like he can say so with confidence. Speaking of. 

"Hey," Tony says again, casually trying to look around, but despite being in the middle of a HYDRA base that the Soldier is in the middle of  _ exploding, _ they seem to be relatively safe, "can I just say I  _ love _ what you've done with the place? You've improved it, like, twenty times over. Could use a bit more boom, honestly, but maybe not while we're here. That sound good? The company could be better, but that's all just momentary until the team catches up." 

For a moment, Tony thinks he's getting through to the Soldier, if only because no one is dying or anything, but then the Soldier moves forward. That's fine. The part where he clearly means to walk straight through Tony isn't; Tony caves to his initial instinct, which is to move out of the murder strut's line of fire, but then he also caves to his next impulse, which is to reach out and hook his fingers into the crook of the Soldier's right arm. 

That's a misstep, but the rest of Tony's reflexes have his back. He immediately ducks the wild swing the Soldier takes at him, and thank god Barnes isn't actually trying to kill him, because no matter how great Tony's reflexes are, he's not going to stand up to the Soldier's training. Barnes jerks back after the initial swing, though: he stumbles, which is also great, because it means Sergeant Barnes' bullet  _ misses. _ Fucking hell. 

" _ Whoa, _ stop! Hold your fire!" Tony shouts, waving one arm wildly and shooting the Sergeant a venomous glare. "You could at least  _ try _ being less homicidal," he spits, which is honestly one part terror and two parts an explosion of hot rage that goes through him because Barnes apparently was always a murderous asshole - and then he turns back to the Soldier. 

" _ Stark? _ " the Soldier says. His composure is shot to hell, expression impossible to make out with the googles and the impromptu muzzle that he's fixed himself with, but Barnes has always been great at expressing bewilderment when it comes down to it. He looks a lot less like murder and a lot more like a beaten dog. 

"Yes, thank you! Stark!" Tony shouts at him. "An actually real person, actually standing here! You've been  _ hallucinating me? _ " That's - not great. That's beyond not great. Someone should have informed him that the Soldier was hallucinating him - that's - unless Barnes never  _ told _ anyone, which seems incredibly likely, given that Barnes didn't react to Tony for several moments. Barnes' hallucinations are never prolonged at first.  _ Fuck. _

The Soldier cuts a look toward the Captain and the Sergeant, which - point. The Captain has finally made it to his feet, holding the shield defensively in front of his body, though he's still hunched sorely, and his Sergeant is hovering just to the side of the shield. His murder scowl is so present it should be its own third person involved in this stand off, more so than the rifle the Sergeant is clutching, not  _ entirely _ pointed at the Soldier but definitely that way. 

"No, that's real," Tony says, pointing at them, although the Soldier should know that, he just went through Rogers earlier. The Sergeant could be throwing him off, though. "Look, I'll get you caught up, but -"

Another part of the burning base explodes, although thankfully with much less force than the one that sent Tony diving to the ground earlier. More fuel, by the sound of it, but not anything in a sealed container. The Soldier and Sergeant don't so much as flinch, though the Captain does, reflexively holding the shield higher - like a disc thirty inches in diameter is ever going to reasonably cover six feet of super soldier. 

"More boom from the sky," Tony says, and then his brain clicks over. "You find anything interesting before we got here?" 

" _ No, _ " the Soldier says viciously, so apparently he's just super triggered. Not surprising, but not great on pretty much every level known to man and some only to alien pseudo-gods. 

"Okay," Tony says, even though he knows better; HYDRA is never  _ not _ up to something, but since it's impossible for HYDRA to have hacked the Winter Soldier's brain during WWII, he's willing to trust that Barnes is capable of ruining their day just fine on his own. Tony doesn't need more nightmares, anyway, he decides, turning back to the Captain and Sergeant. "Alright, I'm good - we're good. Are you good? You look good. We should leave. Let's leave sooner rather than later, I like sooner, let's do sooner, I'd love to see the absolute  _ mess _ Howard has made of my schematics, thanks." 

Even under the cowl, the Captain's Judgemental Eyebrows are in full effect, but he just glances at the burning base for another moment and seems to accept that leaving is more important than an explanation. Which. Wonderful. Tony wonders if he can swap out the new model for the old model. Depending on who does the upgrades, sometimes downgrading is superior. Tony would love to give their model a downgrade. 

-0-

Of course, being stranded in the middle of WWII on his own, having destroyed several HYDRA bases sprawled out across various out of the way countries, thankfully far enough from any battle fronts that Howard's plane doesn't get bombed out of the fucking sky, the Soldier has managed to fuck up his arm something wonderful. 

"You can't do this to me," Tony says, annoyed. "What am I - do you understand, I don't have access to the kind of resources here that I do back home?" 

"I didn't expect you to be here at all," the Soldier says shortly. 

"Yes, clearly," he says. He hates being unstrapped in an old plane with no suit in sight, but there's no way for him to get his hands on the Soldier's arm  _ and _ be strapped in, and being strapped to his seat wouldn't save his life if the plane gets shot down, anyway. Barnes refuses to strap in at all, and Tony isn't stupid enough to say anything about that, so he's turned with his knee folded and scrunched uncomfortably between them, creating something  _ like _ an armrest. 

"Did you steal those from Howard?" the Captain says suspiciously as Tony takes the screwdriver out of the pouch on the belt he's wearing. The Sergeant still hasn't let go of his gun, and they're strapped in across from Tony and the Soldier. It's a bit amazing that the Soldier was willing to give up  _ his _ gun, but again - it's not like he needs a gun to kill anyone. 

Tony grunts at the question because  _ honestly. _ That's not worth answering. "You're lucky the hardware inside this thing is all mine," he says, slipping the edge of the screwdriver into the plates until the ones that aren't bent all out of shape unfold, exposing the wires and circuitry inside. "Otherwise you could consider your day moving on from bad to worse." 

"What the hell do you call  _ you _ being here, then?" the Soldier asks. 

Tony glances up at his covered face and can somehow tell that he's getting looked at askance. "Yeah? And who would you  _ prefer _ to get stranded here with? Wilson? Maybe Natasha? Honestly, if it were Bruce, you'd be chew-toyed by the Hulk by now. Face it, I'm your best bet for getting home - you know it, and I know it, that's why I followed you." He returns his attention to the arm. The Wakandans did an amazing job integrating Tony's tech, replacing the awful hack job HYDRA did connecting the hardware of the Soldier's arm to the wetware of his body. It's their programs running the show, too - but it's still Tony's gears, Tony's sensors, Tony's circuitry. 

_ The suit is a prosthetic, _ he'd told the US government once. No one did better work than  _ Tony Stark _ when it came to making living metal extensions to the body. 

"I'd really like to hear that explanation now," the Captain says. It's amazing. That alone should put Tony's back up, but he doesn't sound like  _ Rogers, _ he just sounds young and prickly. Like he half-expects a 'no.' Used to getting shoved aside and told to mind his own business, to do this or that and put up with only having half the story. 

While Tony would have taken advantage of whatever resources he could no matter what - that's probably why he and  _ this _ version of the Captain aren't having a knock-down dragout fight. 

"If you think that's going to make you happy, you are  _ so _ incredibly wrong," Tony says absently, twisting the screwdriver inside the arm and reaching down with his free hand to dig his thumb into the metal palm, watching carefully how it seizes in response like honest-to-god nerves. "I told you my friend and I aren't from around here, Toto." 

"Obviously," the Sergeant says; Tony glances over to see him eyeballing the arm in a mixture of horror and fascination. His face is only  _ half _ murder, which is actually a pretty good time when it comes to Barnes. 

The Soldier has been tense and unhappy this entire time, which isn't surprising, all things considered; he's tilted his head forward, deepening the shadows and letting his loose hair hang in his face. The goggles and poor excuse of a mask are in place, still. Tony's not going to be the one to ask him to take it off, even though he wishes he would. 

Tony had woken up in the past already taken captive by the good ol' SSR, although thank god Howard was such a selfish shit, because he'd been too curious about a man who appears out of nowhere to let the officials know about Tony's existence. It was how Tony had run into the Captain and the Sergeant, insisting that there was someone he had to find. It had seemed pretty hopeless, honestly - the slight delay between the Barnes getting zapped and Tony following must have thrown them far apart. Despite his best efforts, Tony didn't have JARVIS, or even the resources to take advantage of his own intelligence. There were no cameras or satellites everywhere to hijack during WWII. 

And then the Winter Soldier had started exploding HYDRA bases that the SSR hadn't even known about - but Tony had, because the few times he and Howard had gotten along, it was while talking about the exploits of  _ Captain America. _ So yeah. 

"Let me catch Jumanji up on current events and then we'll be happy to answer any of your questions that don't actually have irreparable effects on - everything," Tony says, although technically speaking, their presence here had already changed things. The fact that both Tony and the Soldier still exist either implies some kind of stable timeloop, or alternate universes. A stable timeloop might just send Tony into a complete and utter breakdown, so he's hoping for alternate universes. The idiots that had captured the Soldier back home hadn't been entirely clear on that, just that they were planning to wreck the Avengers using Bucky Barnes, because apparently Barnes is only good for destroying things,  _ wow. _

"Why don't you catch us all up at the same time," the Sergeant says. It's not a suggestion. 

"You don't scare me," Tony says flatly, which isn't what he means to say at all; it's not even the right Barnes to be saying it to, because the Sergeant isn't the one worried about scaring people. The arm hanging on his knee flexes, and only because Tony had angled the screwdriver in a way that anticipated things like that, does his tool not end up mangled. "My obligations don't extend to  _ you, _ " he adds pointedly, twisting the screwdriver to catch the clips he'd installed in the arm with similar scenarios in mind. 

"Listen," the Captain butts in. "I believe that you believe you're doing the best for everyone involved, but the time for secrets is over. We've helped you this far, you owe us answers." 

The screwdriver goes wildly awry. Tony's bewildered by what's happening, but he's suddenly numb all over, his fingers and his mouth and his face, and he  _ can't breathe. _ His chest clenches. Aches, sharply. He's inside his body, but he's beside it or above it or it isn't his, he isn't sure. His ears are ringing and - he suddenly takes a face-first dive into metal plates, tepid and covered in oil or grease, some kind of residue, and there are hot bands tight around the back of his neck. His hands fumble. They feel awkward and huge, like his fingers have swollen without warning. 

" _ Me, _ " he wheezes. 

"Shut up, Stark," the Soldier says. "Breathe." 

"Fuck you." But he does. Tony screws his eyes shut, clenches his fists, and breathes. This is not the time and place to be having a breakdown of any sort, especially not over fucking Rogers talking about secrets, god fucking damn it. It takes a few moments more to realize that it's the Soldier's hand wrapped over the back of his neck, pushing his face into the metal shoulder. The screwdriver and a fist full of Barnes' ruined aramid jacket are clutched in his hand, his left wobbling desperately where it rests on his knee. 

Well. Crap. 

Tony wrenches himself back upright, the Soldier's hand sliding off the back of his neck. His knuckles ache from clenching so tightly, but he doesn't give himself any time to get feeling back into his fingers, returning to the open panels of the arm. There's still a lot of work to do, because come to think of it, the Soldier probably hadn't a single fucking clue how real any of this world was, so he hadn't primed himself for long term survival without a technician. Tony only bothers with the necessary repairs to make sure it'll still work. 

"Sorry, Tin Soldier, you're looking at a - what?" He reaches down and digs his thumb into the plates of the palm again. "One - one-point- two? One-point-two second delay. It's the best I can do with what you've done with it and what I have on hand. No sensory hookup. I'm not fucking with your nerves until I can get a good and proper readout from FRIDAY. Please don't use that as an excuse to bust the arm up further because your brain is telling you that it's fake, I know you're plenty dangerous with  _ one _ arm but it'd take time to refabricate the entire thing when we get home." 

The Soldier pulls his arm out of Tony's lap and flexes, recalibrating it. Tony watches the plates shift, unlock and open and relock. He'd wanted to design something more solid. The plates had always driven him crazy - they were fishscaled, and the supporting struts and pistons kept them from collapsing or snagging unexpectedly during normal use, and could even shift to increase density as needed. There was a certain sleekness to the design. 

It had looked like a five year old trying to copy Rembrandt. There had been - alloys - technology - gears in there that weren't - that had set Tony's skin to  _ crawling. _ He'd wanted to redesign it completely free of any similarities, and especially free of that particular  _ pitch _ in the gears. 

Barnes had insisted on something at least similar to it, but he'd let Tony use his own gears and pistons, which had brought the pitch of it moving, recalibrating, much closer to the armor than it did the awful purr of space ships. 

"Understood," the Soldier says flatly. 

"Lovely," Tony returns, the way he would if a car had splashed water on his pants leg. He unfolds, swiveling to sit properly in the seat, staring across the plane at the Captain and the Sergeant, who are still watching them suspiciously. Rogers' expression has at least thawed a little, so Tony's breakdown wasn't completely - useless. Gross. Barnes has just a kind of walled off cast to his eye, more dissociation than Winter Soldier, thank fuck. This is awful enough without  _ two _ of them. 

"Look," he says to them, because they clearly need to be told something, and also Tony never worked out that habit of rambling under pressure but at fifty he's probably never going to. "I get you're nervous about a pair of weirdos dropping in from Dimension X, okay, but as Comrade Buttercup here has proven all on his lonesome, we hate HYDRA. We are, actually, on your side - as far as I can tell, anyway, this being - another world, I think." He's leaning more toward another world, because again, a stable timeloop will break his heart, and he doesn't particularly want to return to a future changed by whatever he and the Soldier do here. 

Tony is not optimistic enough to think any changes are for the  _ better. _ Things are awful, but definitely not so bad that he'll risk them to worse. 

The Captain is actually looking surprisingly receptive to Tony's excuses - they aren't exactly excuses, he just really needs to make sure the Soldier's head is on straight and then he'll happily tell the SSR whatever, so long as it doesn't come at the price of fucking Barnes' head up further. It's the Sergeant who looks completely unreceptive to Tony's lines, because  _ of course. _ He's too well trained to go against the Captain's orders, but Tony can read trouble on his face a mile away - maybe because he spent so much time trying to read the Soldier's face, working out equations that measured how safe he may or may not have been at any given time. 

"Alright," the Captain says, glancing slowly between Tony and the Soldier at his side, and the Sergeant is too well trained to glare at him incredulously, but Tony  _ knows _ him somehow, despite the fact they've never strictly met like this until now; when he'd caught Tony slipping his cuffs and taking a stroll off the SSR base, fulling intending to fuck off into the night in search of the Soldier. "Fine. Before we land, though. I can't exactly -" the Captain blinks like he's pulling fucking doe-eyes, what the fuck, grimacing a bit. He fixes Tony with a fledgeling version of that total lack of compromise. "Howard seems to believe you, but I need to be  _ sure. _ Understood?" 

"Yeah," Tony says, nonplussed. "Yeah, sure." Without strictly meaning to, he leans over, catching the Soldier by his wrist. "Hey," he says, "can I get a downgrade? We need a downgrade. I can't remember the last time I didn't want to punch him in the face. This is freaking me out. If I come out of this actually  _ liking _ him, I'm going have to check myself for brainwashing. This is probably brainwashing." 

"Brainwashing hurts a lot more than this," the Soldier says. 

"Ugh, no. Stop." Tony releases his wrist. "I'm too busy freaking out to feel bad about you right now." 

"You're a smart guy, Stark. You can multitask."

"My god." Getting sassed by a brainwashed assassin isn't actually new, since the Soldier  _ always _ had his moments, but in this situation it's a bit surprising. Tony twists, giving him a once-over. He'd fully expected that along with triggering himself, Barnes would retreat back into his training. The Winter Soldier programming had been - well, coded  _ around, _ so the actual programming itself is null, but PTSD is a lot harder to work with. Barnes' rather unique version of having a panic attack was usually just defaulting to acting as the Asset. It wasn't  _ great, _ but it definitely kept Barnes - and just as often his teammates - alive. 

Looking at him, Barnes is definitely freaking right the fuck out. Shit. He  _ should _ be the Asset right now, but he'd only managed it momentarily while Tony was working on his arm. Even in the middle of HYDRA bases, with agents trying to use the trigger words on him, Barnes didn't freak out this badly. 

Tony has changed his mind - he hates the Captain, and also the Sergeant, just for good measure. 

-0-


	2. who the fucky bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Yikes," Tony says out loud, just for good measure as he hustles the Soldier off the plane and into the SSR's secret airplane hangar._  
>  \--
> 
> * * *
> 
> Tony and Bucky arrive with Steve and Sgt Barnes at the SSR base, but combining the Soldier and the Sergeant is a bit like combining mentos and diet coke

* * *

 

Tony is thankful for a lot of things - one being Howard being too curious and too arrogant to properly secure a man who appears out of thin fucking air, two being Howard getting his hands on a plane that could get them to what Tony had pinpointed as the Winter Soldier's next probable target on time, and three, being Howard actually listening to him and not sending the whole entire contingent of the Howling Commandos. 

Fewer casualties that way, he'd said. 

_ "What kind of loose cannon is your friend?" _ Howard had asked, his precise mustache twisted up into an unpleasant smirk. 

_ "The kind you'd talk about at Berkeley, probably," _ Tony had answered, somehow not at all pleased with the way Howard's smirk had dropped off his face. 

It hadn't been Tony's idea to allow the Captain and his Sergeant to come along, but he hadn't argued against it too strongly. He hadn't been sure what kind of state that he'd find the Soldier in; having Cap along for the ride, even if the Serum hadn't had several years to really settle into his body, might have been necessary. Might shake the Soldier out of whatever fugue or flashback he was having; might be able to subdue the Soldier, if the Captain didn't realize that it was his precious Bucky Barnes. 

Tony hadn't really accounted for the Soldier being so bad off he was  _ hallucinating. _ If he'd thought about it a bit, he would have. Barnes' head was fucked up on the best of days - he didn't lose track of where he was too much, but literally being in the past - his own past - with an unstable memory and an unstable mind? Yikes. 

"Yikes," Tony says out loud, just for good measure as he hustles the Soldier off the plane and into the SSR's secret airplane hangar. He'd determined quickly enough that the plane itself wouldn't be secure, and surprisingly despite what the Captain said, he'd let them land and exit without an explanation. 

The Captain and Sergeant thud down the stairs after them, and Tony gives them his best  _ I'm Tony Stark and I'm actually Very Busy Making Billions Thanks _ wave and couples it with the  _ I may be a Rake but I'm also a National Treasure _ smile; it's a combination that always stuns the newbie reporters without fail. "Give us a second, will you? Thanks." 

The Soldier allows Tony get him out of immediate earshot and then says, "I don't actually need you to protect me." 

"Great, I don't care," Tony says shortly. "Your idea of protecting yourself tends to result in a bodycount, sugarlips, so you'll just have to deal with it." 

Barnes huffs behind the leather tied across the bottom half of his face. Now that Tony can get a better look at it, he can see that Barnes used  _ wire, _ because of course he did, both to wrap around his head and to attach it to the goggle straps. It's clear he hadn't been gentle about it. The leather had torn where he'd forced holes into it to feed the wire through. 

"You know, anytime you feel comfortable getting that cheap Winter Soldier Cosplay off your face, I'll be happy to see it go. I'm offended on your behalf. You know your imagine is copyright the Avengers Initiative, and technically they can sue." 

"So sue me," he says. 

"No thanks," Tony says. "I would actually lose money suing you, I hope you know." He scopes out the corner that the Soldier has chosen, which is in plain sight of the entire hangar, and given the way the Captain and the Sergeant are hovering, that's on purpose. Because they're not actually trying to freak those two out. Freaking those two out is an incredibly bad idea. "Alright, cards on the table," he says, poking his finger into the Soldier's chest as he circles around to face him. It gets him Barnes' version of the Heroic Jawline of (in)Justice, which at least isn't the Villainous Murder Slouch, and considering Barnes is triggering his training hard, that's - a good sign? "How long have you been hallucinating me?" 

"Siberia," Barnes says, like  _ so whaddya gonna do about it? _

"Si- " Tony takes a step back and roughly rubs both hands over his face, breathing harshly into his palms. Lowering them sharply, he snarls, " _ are you kidding me? _ " It's kind of hard to have a real good argument with someone wearing goggles and fucking leather over their face, but Tony's really tempted to give it a go. He's argued with his AIs before, he can do it. He doesn't have time to review his memories and determine if any of his weird, stilted run-ins with Barnes were suddenly more explicable knowing that along with a cadre of dead people, Barnes has been carrying on imaginary conversations with  _ Tony, _ too. 

Whatever. It's not important right now. Tony's not sure it's really ever going to be important, other than Barnes is keeping secrets, which was not part of the agreement. 

"Right, well," Tony says momentarily, flexing his left hand and trying to make it stop shaking. "Despite that, here's hoping for the best." He engages his mouth in a quick summary of the events as he knows them - it's practiced, automatic, routine. He's had to spout off and recite the timeline  _ so many times. _ The Fall of SHIELD, the Accords, the so-called Civil War. Wakanda hacking and gutting his tech, running roughshod over copyrights to construct something that pulled the Words out of James Buchanan Barnes' mind. The pardons. Thanos. 

He finally arrives in the year 2018, and the team facing off against HYDRA wannabes, drawing out the Winter Soldier and cutting him off from the others. There had been civilian hostages. Tony had been too slow to stop them from sending Barnes-  _ away _ _-_ but he'd been quick enough to stop them from destroying the machines. And then he'd sent himself after Barnes. 

"So, who are you, again?" Tony asks, narrowing his eyes at the Soldier. 

"James," the Soldier says, which is. Okay? What. Technically correct, Tony guesses, but not the usual answer he gives. He churns his hand to gesture Barnes onward, and the Soldier continues, "I arrived near one of their bases. I thought - it was like a memory." 

Tony hadn't realized that the Soldier had been relaxing a bit until now as he's tensing up, going cold. That's not great. The last thing they really need is Tony getting triggered because  _ Barnes _ is getting triggered. Wonderful. He makes his words deliberately casual and looks at some distant point beyond the Soldier's elbow. "Sounds awful. Gave them what-for, didn't you?" 

"Yeah," Barnes agrees, exhaling. He works at it for a few moments, but eventually starts to slack out of the rigid posture of the Winter Soldier again. "It was like your BARF thing. I was going to kill them all." It scrapes out like the only reason the words don't shatter with hundreds of petajoules of force and impossible shrapnel is the muffling effect of the leather mask. 

Tony finds his mouth quirking into a dry, thin smile. He imagines that on some level, it would have been therapeutic for Barnes if not for the whole 1940s WWII thing. Letting Tony at the cave, for example, in one of his more recent Marks would have been - yeah. Incredibly therapeutic. 

"Coming after me was stupid," Barnes says suddenly, and it wasn't like they were having a moment or anything, but Tony's moment of - what? Pleasure? Gladness? Whatever it was he'd felt in response to Barnes bloodthirsty vow of mass murder, it's over now. He usually hates Barnes' excessive homicidal urges, but when it's HYDRA it's hard to get worked up about it, especially given their history. 

"It was a high risk, high reward plan," he says, rolling his eyes and reaching up to work the stiff muscles of the back of his neck. Today has  _ sucked. _ "It's paid off so far." 

"Yeah," the Soldier agrees after a second. "Thanks." 

Tony stares up at him incredulously. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he says, "you're - welcome?" He's got a serious case of creepy crawlies; he suddenly equally hates and is thankful for the goggles and mask. Even so, Barnes seems to have found his footing, which is what matters. "More importantly, what are we telling Star Spangled and beta version zero-point-nine-point-two? Beta version's trigger finger is getting twitchier by the second." 

He feel the weight of the Soldier's gaze for a few moments longer before Barnes turns his gaze over his shoulder at the Captain and the Sergeant. Rogers has his arms crossed, but his stance isn't yet wide enough to make him look like anything other than any other random stern civilian.  _ Tony _ would stand that way if he were arguing with Pepper, for god's sake. The Sergeant, on the other hand, is looking increasingly murderous. 

"He tried shooting me, by the way," Tony says absently. "When I was escaping the first time."

"No, he didn't. You'd be dead. He fired warning shots," the Soldier says and ignores Tony's  _ 'yes, that's what I said' _ glare. Then glances at him. "The first time?" 

Tony shrugs. He hadn't been very forthcoming about anything until he'd heard about how the first HYDRA base had blown and he'd realized that the Soldier would be a lot easier to find than he'd thought, and also on a Mission, and perhaps a lot more dangerous than Tony without his suit could handle. "I don't like being closed in," he says, not looking at Barnes. 

"Yeah," the Soldier says, sounding a bit raw. "You can say that again." 

Yeah, so Barnes has been hallucinating him for the past two years at least. That's. Tony's just going to roll with the fact that Barnes has decided that now that Tony knows, they're friends now. Tony both can and can't believe himself on this point: Barnes is- what Barnes did, and. But also despite the fact that his personality is seventy percent PTSD, fifteen percent machine, five percent murder, and ten percent sass - well. Barnes is kind of. Likable. Not likable, but there's something about Barnes, even as the Soldier, that clicks with Tony in a weird way. Something he recognizes, somehow. Like he had with Natasha, but stronger than that. Natasha had sashayed into Stark Industries and he hadn't been able to look away. It had nothing to do with her doe-eyed glances or the curve of her hips. 

It was worse with Barnes, maybe because of what he did. He's like a black hole and Tony had determinedly stayed as far away as he could to avoid getting caught in that gravity well. Tony hadn't  _ wanted _ to click with Barnes to be honest, and with their history, and no one reasonable and sane could ever blame him for that. And yet. 

Contrasting the Howard that Tony had known with this young, spunky version that calls him  _ gramps, _ Tony thinks he wants even less to become a bitter old man like his  Dad.

Well, when Starks make a decision, they always go all in, Tony thinks. Besides. Barnes has been hallucinating Tony enough not to recognize when the real thing was standing right in front of him. Apparently Barnes isn't the only one with a gravity well. "So," Tony says, loosening his shoulders. "What are we telling them?" 

The Soldier looks at him again, for a long, quiet moment, inscrutable behind hair and goggles and mask. "Dunno," he says at last. "Whatever you want, I guess. You say you can get us home?" 

Snorting, he says, "I  _ am _ a genius, and I did take a look at those machines when I sent myself after you." 

"Then it doesn't much matter, does it?" Barnes asks. "We won't be sticking around for the fallout." 

"True," Tony says. "You sure? Certain cats come out of Pandora's bag, and you know you won't be getting any rest for it."

"Yeah, I know," he says. "You figure we can change it?" 

That takes the breath right out of him. It isn't  _ easy _ for Tony to just shrug and say they're leaving everything as it is - but his pains and grievances are his own to bear. Resigning himself to his own mother's death, and everything that happened thereafter is one thing - seventy years of brainwashing and torture is a whole separate matter. He's seen the results. Barnes has been out of HYDRA's hands for years now and it's still a daily struggle of not knowing who he is or where he is all the time. Might be for the rest of his life. 

Reaching up, he clasps the Soldier's shoulder. "I'll talk your ear off about alternate worlds and stable timeloops later," he says, stepping away. "Try basking in your general apathy and happiness no one is shooting at you right this second until then, you'll need that to hold onto." 

The Soldier huffs, his boots scraping as he follows. "You suck at reassuring people, Stark." 

"I don't reassure people," he says, clasping his hands together, turning just enough to catch sight of Barnes out of the corner of his eye. "My job is not to lie to people and say  _ everything is fine _ unless I actually know everything is fine. Everything's not fine. This is me, not lying to you about everything being fine, and then you discovering everything actually sucks and we're all going to die alone, probably slowly and painfully."

"A real ray of sunshine." 

-0-

It appeases Tony's general sense of - whatever you wanted to call it: showmanship? Privacy as a celebrity and superhero? Decency? Nah, probably wasn't decency, Tony didn't really have a strong sense of decency - to hold back on revealing his teammate's identity as long as Barnes continues to wear his mask. 

"He says his name is James so we're going with that," Tony says, and the Captain goes along with that without even questioning him,  _ this is amazing, _ if Tony wasn't being driven up a wall by the fact that he's so far away from his suits and AIs, he might actually want to hang around in the past for a while. Sergeant Murder doesn't look happy, but Tony's figured out that he's basically there to make sure everyone keeps their mouths shut and does what the Captain tells them. Too bad for both of them that Tony's more familiar with their awful future selves and isn't impressed with either of them. 

Tony gets them all moving out of the hangar and toward the building. "At this rate, I might as well explain this only once, so if we could all move to the lab where Howard is -"

"Howard's here?" 

Tony turns. The Soldier has come to a screeching halt, and more than that, he's seized up. It's not  _ quite _ the Winter Soldier's posture, but it's close enough to make Tony uneasy, especially given the circumstances. 

"Yes," the Captain says, gazing narrowly at the Soldier. He'd pulled the cowl off and put the shield away, but now he looks like he regrets it, which - Tony can appreciate that. He  _ did _ get flung back like thirty feet when he'd met the Soldier for the first time. 

With all three of them standing around this close, the difference between the Soldier and Sergeant is kind of amazing. Sergeant James Barnes is only a few inches taller than Tony - the Soldier has inches on the Sergeant, and is broader and built like something ridiculous, although not nearly as ridiculous as the Captain, and  _ especially _ the Captain they're more familiar with - giving the Serum a few years and Tony's entire pantry, and Rogers had packed on even more mass. 

Come to think of it, Tony thinks the last year of living with the Avengers has probably done the same thing to Barnes. He'd certainly seemed strangely diminished when the whole mess with the Accords was going down.

"Oh, don't pretend like you didn't know this," Tony says reproachfully. "I know for a fact I already mentioned him.  _ Someone _ had to do the smart work while we flew over to retrieve you, Captain Amnesia. There's only so much Howard can actually fuck up that I won't be able to fix. It's safe enough."

"No," Barnes says, his breath shushing against the the leather too fast and too loud. "I will guard the door," he decides abruptly, like he's trying to change his mission objective. 

"You know Howard?" the Captain demands suspiciously, turning and moving toward the Soldier. 

"Shut up," Tony says, also moving forward. He plants his hand in the middle of Rogers' chest, which only stops the man out of habit, honestly. Tony's no weakling, but he's no super soldier. "And stop. I mean, if you really  _ want _ to discover the means of flight, please, be my guest. It won't be very fun for the rest of us. Give him some room." The Captain gives him a belligerent look, but - amazingly - caves, allowing Tony to push him back a few steps. 

Tony gives him and Sergeant Murder a once over, but determines they'll wait - out of respect of the Soldier's strength, if nothing else. He turns back to Barnes and gives him a quick once-over as well, and things with him are situation normal: all fucked up. 

Right. The reason Tony was mostly capable of coping with Howard was that he is nothing like the man that was Tony's father. Barnes, on the other hand, is standing right behind him at Captain America's shoulder; this is precisely the Howard that Barnes would remember. The same man that Barnes remembers breaking the face of - Howard had probably died of his brain swelling, uncontrolled, inside the casing of his skull.

Exhaling harshly, Tony rubs his hands over his face and the back of his neck; tension was sitting there in a heavy knot, building into one hell of a stress migraine. He's gotten countless numbers of those over the last few years. 

"Alright, yeah, that's not going to happen, William Sugar," Tony says. "Think about it. Would  _ you _ let you guard a door?" 

His only answer is the Soldier tilting his head slightly, and then getting the kind of set to his shoulders that makes Tony think that he's willing to  _ make _ them let him guard a door, and that's - no. 

"The Asset will -" the Soldier begins.

A sudden white-hot surge goes through Tony - a surge of  _ something, _ he's not sure what - but he isn't as quick as the Sergeant, who grabs Captain America and hauls him back violently. Tony stalls, turning to stare, along with the Soldier, and suddenly Sergeant Barnes is only too familiar, blanched with a cornered animal look of terror in his eyes. It's the same thing that must have powered his muscles when he grabbed Rogers, who is sprawled on the ground behind him. 

Tony reacts purely on instinct. It's two steps to reach the Sergeant and close his hand over the top of the pistol he's drawn because the rifle is strapped to his back and unloaded. Tony twists the pistol free, not that it matters because the Sergeant goes for his knife with the other hand and yeah, that's not going to be good. The knife flashes out, too fast to see - or would be, except it's a shower of sparks flying off a metal arm.

The Soldier's right arm clamps down around Tony's shoulders, the left twisting and catching the Sergeant's wrist. Tony is forcibly pivoted around the Soldier's center of gravity. He still has the pistol, and as he steps free, he brings it up even though it's  _ useless, _ there's no one here he actually wants to shoot. Barnes of the past and future twist, a flurry of blows done lightning fast. There's no question about who will win. The Soldier has had more training, more experience, and he's better fed even after a few weeks in the past. 

Of course the  _ Captain _ , who has been merely flung to the ground, is on his feet by this time. The Soldier catches the shield the Captain slices at him with negligent ease, reversing the swing and smashing Rogers in the nose, even as he ducks under the -  _ is that a new knife? _ Barnes started his career of being a swiss army Soldier a lot earlier than Tony realized - swing that the Sergeant aimed at his face. 

Tony already knows there's no way the Soldier is going to listen to him in this state, and definitely no way Captain America and Sergeant Barnes are going to listen to him. He scrambles back from the fight, tracking the hangar crew. They're shouting and running. It's going to draw a lot more attention than even the Winter Soldier can fight through without killing everyone. 

The Captain goes flying again, apparently after a kick to the chest, given that he lands and starts wheezing. The Sergeant barks out, " _ Steve, _ " because of course, and snarls. His renewed ferocity is - something - not that it's doing him any good against the Soldier, who is effortlessly controlling the encounter and not killing him yet. Even as Tony activates his gauntlet, pulling it over his hand, he has the strange idea that the Soldier is - showing? Guiding? Barnes through the motions. 

Tony suspects he gets this idea only because he knows what the Soldier looks like when he's actually trying to kill someone. 

"Steve," the Sergeant rasps as the Captain gets back to his feet. " _ Him! _ He's the one!" 

It takes Tony and the Captain both the same amount of time to realize what the Sergeant is implying. Tony stills in surprise, and their eyes meet across the fight, and he watches the Captain's eyes go cold and determined. Leveraging up into a crouch, the Captain detaches his shield and lets it loose in a powerful swing. 

Tony's life doesn't flash before his eyes or anything like that. He's almost died too many times to still have that nonsense going on. He has a split second to think:  _ well, of course, _ and also,  _ fuck, I promised Barnes I'd get him home. _ Of course it would happen like this. Ever since Rogers walked into his life, Tony has been destined to get killed by him because of  _ Barnes. _

The shield is almost instantly caught in a metal hand. The Soldier twists  _ all _ of Sergeant Barnes on the axis of his shoulder, landing him roughly on the floor face down, and slices the shield down. It ricochets off the cement floor and sticks to the roof of the hangar with the eerie sound of shearing metal. 

It happened fast, but not so fast that Tony hadn't taken advantage of it. "We're taking this party to the '70s," he says loudly as the sequence he'd punched into his gauntlet locks in, ducking his head and raising the gauntlet. 

Instead of firing off a repulsor blast, the gauntlet shrills and pops, a pulse going through the metal to let Tony know that it's released a flash at several hundred lumens. Although that's hardly necessary - the shocked cries of the men hurrying to subdue the Winter Soldier would have been enough. Tony lowers the arm he'd tucked protectively over his face to see the Soldier has taken Sergeant Barnes hostage, of all unbelievable things, putting his back to Tony and standing between him and the rest of the hangar, which - that's. That's. Something. 

That's something Tony doesn't know how to feel about. If the Soldier doesn't feel threatened by Tony when he snaps, then usually he just pretends that Tony isn't there unless he's directly in danger. This really shouldn't qualify; Tony's sure the hangar team wouldn't think to take him hostage, and without his shield, the Captain himself isn't a danger to Tony - Rogers would never get his hands dirty by using just them to kill someone. 

Even with the flashbang setting Tony's used his gauntlet at, he's pretty sure no one here is going to think he's more of a threat than the Soldier. Not with how the Soldier has his metal hand clamped around Barnes' chin, purring as it calibrates, his right hand holding both of the Sergeant's wrists twisted tightly behind his back.

"Stay back!" the Captain shouts without even looking, blinking rapidly. He has one arm thrust out to block the hangar crew, who are still trying to figure out how to bring their guns to bear. He's still half blinded by the flash, and yet the look on his face is familiar enough to wrench Tony's chest tight and squeeze the air from his lungs. 

"Do it," the Sergeant rasps, gritting his teeth. He's heaving for breath, maybe shaking or maybe trying to wrest free but held still by the Soldier's unrelenting strength. The expression on his face must be truly awful, if the Captain's is anything to go by. 

"You lower your weapons, or I rip his face off," the Soldier says casually; the words trip out with a merry little clip, and the awful weight on Tony's chest abruptly and unexpectedly lightens at the sound of it. 

"Let him go," the Captain says, straightening to his full height. 

"Or, you know," Tony says, reaching out; he lightly touches the Soldier's shoulder with the palm of his hand, and when the Soldier doesn't so much as twitch, cautiously rests it there. "Maybe don't break your own arms. That would be nice. Hey, Captain, out of curiosity, what  _ did _ you think was going to happen when that shield-" Tony points upwards, where it's stuck halfway through the roof, " _ hit my face? _ Just - you know. Asking." 

The Captain pays him exactly zero percentage of his attention, his eyes flickering around the hangar, searching for a line of attack probably. Tony sighs, short and annoyed, and turns his attention to the Sergeant. The Soldier's  _ fingers _ are recalibrating, the plates shifting against the stubble on Barnes' jaw. What Tony can see of his expression is pale and cornered and wild, and it's honestly going to break Tony's heart, what the fuck. In retrospect, it makes a lot of really fucked up sense for HYDRA to try programming a bunch prisoners of war as sleeper agents to be released by into the Allies' armies. 

"You can't let them, Steve," the Sergeant says direly, and the Captain gets a kind of awful look on his face. Despite the fact that Barnes seems willing to - what? Die? Get his jaw ripped clean off his face? - in order to prevent whatever he thinks Tony and the Soldier are up to, the Captain is clearly unwilling to go through with it. There's no way he's going to provoke the Soldier, or let the men around him do anything to that effect - not with his Bucky's life on the line. So that's. Well. Harsh. Harsh is a good word for it. The Soldier is a stone cold bitch, apparently. 

"Let us - what? Exactly?" Tony wonders. "No offense, but you're the one that attacked us. James just responded to an unprovoked threat. I think if you'll actually pay attention, you're the one that pulled the gun, and then you tried to - at the very least, ruin this National Treasure-" he gestures to his face, "and then your buddy over there actually tried to  _ kill me, _ because that's what happens when you throw  _ twelve pounds of metal into someone's face! _ " 

_ Yes, kill you, _ says the Captain's eyes, which is - just. Wonderful. Expected, but somehow incredibly demoralizing at the same time. All incarnations of Steve Rogers will happily kill Tony. That's. Nice. 

"You know, I actually know what you're thinking," Tony says, turning his attention back to the Sergeant. He learned a long time ago that the way to Rogers is through Barnes. "You're wrong, of course. Well - about me. You're right about James, but he's not with that nightmare circus anymore - broke himself free and he's back on the side of the angels now. Well. As angelic as any of us get. Old Testament angels. Ah - Book of Revelations angelic, more like. The point is, I can't really prove it to you, but we're definitely not friendly with HYDRA, if you'll remember the number of places James has blown sky-high."

"I can prove it," the Soldier says. 

"Oh," Tony says, "are you -" 

He doesn't get to finish, because Barnes wrenches the Sergeant in half, twisting his arms brutally but not at an angle that will pop them loose. With his left hand, he reaches up and grabs the entire ensemble on his face, pulling the whole thing down around his neck. Then, to make his point, rakes his hand back through his hair, pulling it back to reveal just - everything. 

"Yeah, that would do it," Tony mutters, dropping his hand and stepping back. 

The Captain all too clearly recognizes him, and his mouth falls open, soft and confused. The team of men at his back are less touched, but they sense their leader's confusion. The Soldier is clearly older and rougher - sharper - than the Sergeant, but he's still undeniably James Barnes. "Hey, Steve," the Soldier says, weary, worn, and tired. 

" _ Bucky? _ " 

-0-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tony:** being confined :\\\\\\\\\\\  
>  **bucky:** big mood 
> 
> Editing this note to point out that Bucky was not intentionally written with DID, although after looking into actual DID (and not the pop culture forms I see in a lot of fiction regarding Bucky), he's very likely he could be diagnosed with it. Bucky has one set of memories, one set of priorities, and generally one personality; he simply has three separate methods of handling things and contexts for behavior.


	3. a learning machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the captain and sergeant lose the soldier, to tony's everlasting lack of surprise.

* * *

 

Tony would be lying if he said he weren't at least a little bit put out that the Soldier had done away with all of Tony's efforts to continue hiding his identity, but - on the other hand, it has opened up a lot of new options for them. Even if he has his own Bucky to worry over, who is back to hovering around his shoulder and giving the Soldier and Tony suspicious, hateful and confused looks - the Captain is utterly useless when it comes to anything Bucky. Even a Bucky seen through a funhouse mirror, from - the future? An alternate world? Tony still isn't clear on that one.

It had taken effort to get everyone to calm down after the attack, but Sergeant Barnes was undeniably the one who attacked first, and Tony argued that both his actions and those of the Soldier's had been defensive. There had been further shouting and confusion and a lot of big doe-eyes from Rogers and a return of the beaten dog look that the Soldier had worn for the first several weeks after returning to the United States.

Tony had rushed his okay back into the base in order to get away from the whole entire emotional mess. His attempt failed in that the Soldier was unwilling to let Tony escape, moving like a giant, threatening shadow. Tony had picked Happy to be his bodyguard for many reasons, not the least of which was because he looked approachable. The Soldier was a bodyguard fit to the Merchant of Death in a way that made Tony supremely uneasy.

Howard Stark isn't impressed in the least, ignoring the small group of soldiers that had followed Tony into the sorry excuse of a science lab that the base had in favor of cutting Tony a look of wry reproach.

"You sure know how to make a guy's life difficult," he says, and Tony bites back his first three instinctive responses to that. "I've gathered most of the things on the list you gave me, but it wasn't easy and it certainly wasn't cheap. I had to call in at five favors. I'll probably have to call in _more_ in order to get the rest of the things on here."

Tony arches his brow as Howard sets the packet on the table, allowing Tony to pick it up and look over it. They'd already been over the whole song and dance with Tony's pet peeve with being handed things. Howard had accepted in his new money manner, well trained to ignore the eccentricities of the Old Money he was coaxing funding from.

"Breaking the laws of physics isn't cheap," Tony says, flipping the pages to see what is still missing. A lot of it would have been a cinch for Tony to pick up - well, no, everything in the lab would have been easy to come by for _Tony Stark._ The unfortunate thing was that they were now close to eighty years in the past, and the technology reflected that, and - as curious as Howard was about what Tony intended to build, the Stark resources weren't anything near limitless, and especially not during a war.

Especially in a year predating the first thing that could have been considered a precursor to an actual computer. _Vacuum tubes._ Really? This is depressing. 

"You said it, gramps," Howard says with a smirk.

Tony rolls his eyes; he's over the weirdness and offense he'd felt the first time Howard called him that. Even this couldn't be nearly as awkward as what's going on in the corner of the lab. The Sergeant, honestly, has looked pretty traumatized by the entire experience, although Tony wouldn't swear that's because of the Soldier; it could just as easily be the Captain's hovering increasing by a frankly ridiculous amount. Everyone other than the Soldier seems to be suitably weirded out by it, but honestly, this Captain's hovering is nothing compared to the hovering the Soldier had gone through every time Rogers got it into his head that someone even glanced at him sideways.

Although that isn't bothering him, something is getting to the Soldier - over the last several minutes, he's looked increasingly less and less like Barnes. Tony gives it another hour or so before he defaults to speaking broken Russian and referring to himself as the Asset again. It's making Tony's fingers itchy, but it's also very not his business.

"So," Howard says suddenly, "other worlds, huh."

Yeah, that was one cat out of the bag, now that they knew that Tony's 'friend' was James Barnes - _a_ James Barnes, anyway. Right now, he's going with that answer because he's not really sure how well time travel will go over. Plus, whatever is stopping Howard from bringing Tony's existence up with his General, Tony thinks that would go out the window the moment they know that Tony knows how the war plays out. He's pretty sure the Soldier will dig him right back out of whatever hole they try to hide him in, but he'd like to avoid being taken captive by his own government.

"This whole situation is new to me, too," he says shortly, not having to pretend irritation. "We didn't build the one that sent Laffy Daffy and myself over. To be honest, I've been too busy trying to keep _my_ world safe to worry about there being other worlds out there."

"But you think you can build one in this world in order to get back to your own," Howard says, tone patronizing but his eyes all too sharp.

Tony thinks of caves and miniaturized arc reactors SI's R&D division and their endless raving frustration with him; he can't quite help the unpleasant twist his mouth makes. Granted, he won't be stripping his own weapons for parts, but he can probably work with what Howard can provide.

"I can," Tony says. "In fact, I can build a _better_ one." He thrusts the papers back at Howard, striding across the lab to the desk that he'd hastily sketched up schematics on. The drawer slides open to reveal his schematics mostly unmolested, although he's noticed that Howard's put questions out along the sides and little exclamations.

"Show me," Howard says, and god, but Tony knows that tone of voice - that tone that says _this is new and interesting and good and I want to look at it from every angle possible._ He talks just exactly like that when someone finally starts to come together to him - alien technology and new Marks of the suit that do things nothing else native to earth has ever dreamed of doing.

"Are you sure you can keep up?" he can't quite help but to taunt.

Howard's face is wry but eager. "Only one way to find out."

It's not as awful as Tony would have thought it would have been, if he had given himself a chance to actually think about what actually working would Howard would mean. He's seen the videos of Howard when his father was a younger man - but. Well. The real thing is a bit of a different animal. Tony isn't - _Tony_ to Howard, which probably adds to it. Then again, who Howard had been with his family had also been an entirely different person than who he was to his peers, or to the public.

Not to mention the forty-odd years, plus losing Captain America.

But _this_ Howard can almost keep up with Tony. Howard is limited by their understanding of science in this time, and Tony's limited by their cripplingly primitive technological levels - is this how Thor feels, he wonders - but there's space to meet in the middle, to work around the spots where each fall short. Every time it seems like they're going to stall out, something will click for one of them and they're progressing again by leaps and bounds.

By the time someone intrudes on their inventing frenzy, hours have passed. Tony knows because he knows what it feels like to suddenly come stumbling out of the lab, having had no coffee to find it's the wrong day. It's not quite that bad - apparently the base won't let Howard do that kind of thing, or maybe Howard isn't prone to it.

In either case, someone has sent dinner and coffee up to the lab, interrupting the flow of things, which turns out to be fine, because a few minutes after that, Sergeant Barnes drops by. His posture is deceptively loose, gaze sharp and unfriendly, and he bares an uncanny resemblance to the Rogers of Tony's time.

Well. No. The damage is the same, or similar, but he wears the wounds sullenly, rather than belligerently. Both wounded animals in a corner, Tony thinks as the Sergeant peers into the room and fixates on Tony. Dryly, he says, "Steve lost 'im."

Howard, who isn't paying as close of attention to the Sergeant as he honestly should, with that kind of look in his eye, seems puzzled. He glances up around a bite of sandwich, muttering, "What?"

Tony, unsurprised, only rolls his eyes heavenward. "Of course he did," he says. He called it hours ago, and besides, Rogers loses Barnes all the damned time and acts like each time is the first. He wonders how long the Soldier has been missing before the Sergeant bothered to come report. Absently, he takes a drink from his tin cup, and grimaces. The coffee is awful, and he actually shouldn't be drinking any this late if he plans to sleep at all. When he was younger, he could drink coffee and then crash into bed and sleep anyway, but the long stints in the lab and the copious amounts of coffee are rougher on him now than they used to be.

"You don't seem particularly concerned about that," Barnes says, all sharp in the mouth and bright in the eyes, the chrome and glitter and gleam of shrapnel.

"Wrong again," Tony says, not looking at him. "But if James doesn't want to be found, there's certainly nothing I can do with what I have now to locate him. _Maybe_ on home territory, if he was feeling particularly lenient." Even without that, he could have found the Soldier if - _JARVIS_ \- but FRIDAY still has so much to learn.

It's not blatant, but the hairs on the back of Tony's neck go on end, and so he glances out of the corner of his eye. The Sergeant is more PTSD than programming, although clearly at least some programming has taken place; the scowl is native to his face, Tony figures, but the way Barnes looks at him like he'd like to slit him open from mouth to asshole is something HYDRA took from the Soldier. There's only ever purpose or terror to the Soldier's violence.

Howard casts the door a curious look after Barnes closes it a touch too loudly, still a military man enough not to slam it with all his strength. "What was that about?" he wonders. There's a slight sneer of impatience to his mouth.

"Who knows?" Tony says. Certainly not the Sergeant. Tony has some ideas, though, and he's not sure how he feels about the fact that the Sergeant had come around to tattle on the Captain about them losing the Soldier. Not in a 'tie down your mad dog' way, but like Tony was supposed to _care,_ like Tony would worry. Tony _is_ worried, because if the Soldier gets triggered too hard while stuck in the past where his grasp on reality is understandably flimsier than a wet paper bag -

Damn it.

"I'm gonna," Tony says, stuffing the sandwich in his face and sloshing more coffee into the tin cup. He gets to his feet, loathed to leave the lab; he understands now how spoiled he is back home, where FRIDAY or Pepper or _someone_ will regularly come by and provide him food and coffee and not wait eight - eight? Probably eight hours into a building binge after a long and tense flight and a fight in the hangar. "I'm gonna go stretch my legs."

"Yeah?" Howard says, and Tony's been looked at too many times with that exact kind of expression to mistake it. That look that says _Merchant of Death,_ that look that says _You didn't do enough,_ that look that says _I blame you._ That's not the look that Howard is giving him, but it's similar. "Make sure you hurry back."

"Yeah, Grandpa needs his sleep," Tony says, not half as sharply as he would like. "There's not exactly any rush and not much else we can do until the rest of the parts I need get here. None of it will work without them, and it's not like you have air delivery," or Amazon Prime, or whatever. He picks up the tin of coffee and tilts it the way he would a tumbler of scotch, and Howard relaxes a bit, shrugging his shoulders.

"True enough, I suppose," he says, peering at the schematics with fascination.

Amazing. Maybe that it makes sense that he'd be better at handling his father as an adult, but it still throws him off a bit. Tony leaves the lab, polishing off the last of his sandwich. SSR or not, it's still a military base. Most of the soldiers who were a part of it - the Howling Commandos in particular - would be set up in barracks, but even in the 40's, they wouldn't house officers in the same dormitories. For safety's sake, the officer quarters aren't _too_ close to the science labs where any loose Starks might be exploding something, but the walk isn't long enough to require Tony to talk to anyone outside a nod as he passes.

They more or less have Tony living out of a closet. It's only recently gained a cot and a nightstand. Before it had just been him and the cement floor and the handcuffs and chains they'd been keeping him in. Tony figures it's better for everyone involved that they quickly realized he wasn't staying anywhere he didn't want to be.

Rapping twice on the door to his temporary bedroom, Tony opens it and steps inside. Although the cot technically folds away, he's never really seen the point in it, given that he only ever comes here  to collapse into it. It takes up much of the cramped space. There's a lamp that he's strung up on the wall, despite it being a desk lamp - off, so the only light is coming in from the hallway. The only table in the room is taken up by a pan meant for grooming that Tony has mostly ignored, his hair cropped too short to worry about and unmindful of his beard growing in. Howard had supplied him a straight razor, but Tony had other concerns at the time. It's still sitting there on the table, so that's. Good, probably. Given that there's someone shoved into the corner.

"I'm gonna come in and turn on the light, if that's all the same to you," Tony says. "I don't actually naturally have night vision, and I stopped sitting in dark rooms when I was fourteen." He leaves the door open so he doesn't trip over the folding bed and break something, possibly himself, and clicks on the lamp before going back to the door and shutting it. The Soldier continues to sit in the corner he's claimed for himself, his right hand folded over the tops of his knees, the left hand resting on the ground beside him.

He doesn't look particularly dangerous or cornered, watching Tony move about the small space, which is good, because if he wanted to, he could kick out and break Tony's thigh. Still, Tony approaches him carefully, reaching down to tap the elbow of the arm on his knees, and when that provokes no response, slides his hand around to rest on top of the Soldier's bicep. Tony shifts down, resting his knee on the floor, and offers the tin of coffee out of the sheer weirdness of the situation. The Soldier doesn't react, so Tony sets it down on the floor beside them.

It isn't entirely surprising that neither Captain nor Sergeant thought to look for him here. He doesn't doubt that they're aware of his quarters, but they're still thinking of the Soldier as _Barnes._ Bucky. Even when the Soldier is Bucky, he isn't the Bucky they know.

"So," he says, "just out of curiosity, who are you, anyway?"

The Soldier shifts, glancing away and blinking slowly. He considers the question, then says, "Bucky."

That's not entirely surprising. He _looks_ like he thinks he's Bucky - or at least the Bucky that Tony has come to know: the quiet, avoidant man that ghosts through the Avengers Compound looking like a beaten dog, attending his mandated therapy with a strange sort of defeat. The one that Tony met during the fight over the Accords.

"Okay," Tony says. "Two Buckys will be a bit confusing, but we'll manage somehow. You spooked Thing One and Thing Two when you pulled your old ghost routine on them. Wanna tell me what that was about?"

The Soldier's eyes are sharp over the line of his forearm. "Steve come cryin' to you about it?" he asks dryly.

Tony's brows go up. "Sergeant Barnes, actually, in a bit of a snit." He doesn't take his hand off the Soldier's arm when he leans back a bit to get a better look at him. "I don't think Captain America has forgiving me for putting his Bucky in danger back in the hangar, honestly." It takes a handful of seconds to put it together, and Tony narrows his eyes at the Soldier. "Are you actually jealous of yourself?"

"How do you think you from 2010 would feel if 2018 you showed up and got all of your Rhodes' attention?" the Soldier asks, which is - a lot more introspective than Tony actually expected out of him. He's not sure why.

"Point," Tony allows. He probably wouldn't be in a total snit the way the Sergeant is, but he certainly wouldn't be happy about it. "So what did our Shining Beacon of Justice and the American Way do to chase you into the shadows?"

The Soldier unfolds slightly, carefully sliding his feet to the side to stretch his legs out past where Tony is crouched. "Asked too many questions," he says, leaning his head back and rubbing his face, raking back his hair. "About you, but about me, too. After the way I flipped - _he_ flipped, the old me - he started asking questions that he hadn't before."

"Hate to break it to you, but you also flipped," Tony says. Of course after something like what happened in the hangar, the good Captain would get suspicious and stop thinking that the Sergeant's stay in the Alps had _just_ been about manufacturing weapons for HYDRA. Might start thinking, having seen the Soldier, that it was also about _becoming_ a weapon himself. Of course the Sergeant and the Soldier both would get incredibly skittish about it. 

He gets to his feet, rubbing at his sore knees, and moves to sit on the cot. He licks his lips and stares at the Soldier, and wonders if he's really - yeah, he's really going to do this. He's really actually going to sincerely try engaging in sympathetic talk with the broken remains of the Winter Soldier. _No bitter old men,_ Tony reminds himself, and gentles his voice, and says, "Not a lot of fun thinking about it, is it."

Barnes exhales, long and wobbling. It makes Tony exhausted just listening to it - just looking at the Soldier, making himself as small as possible in the corner of a cramped room, having to take refuge with _Tony_ of all people, driven away from his own best friend - probably the person that had held him together after being retrieved from some nameless HYDRA base in the Alps, now that Tony thinks about it. He wonders if some small part of Barnes knew that there was no way that Rogers would be able to hold him together this time around. Rogers can't even hold _himself_ together, let alone Bucky Barnes, who clearly thought himself shattered into too many helpless pieces, fragments so small they were lost to the point that no amount of glue would fill in the cracks.

Tony has had some hard knocks in his life; he's missing a lot of chips, too. He's kind of... broken in half, sure - sharp and clean like a fault or hairline fracture had been struck just so - but the pieces left were large enough to tell he'd at least been some kind of novelty coffee cup. No one had smashed him and then ground those pieces into powder with a hammer and blew them away with a sharp, mocking breath.

"Come on, Bucky, you're killing me," Tony sighs, stirring to his feet so he can remove the utility harness he'd mocked up to hang the tools he's borrowing from Howard. He hangs it off a nail in the wall and then starts in on his shoes. "They give you a room? No? Well, the accommodations are awful, but I still need the sleep if I'm going to invent us out of here and back home. Wake me in a few hours and you can have the cot then."

"I don't need to sleep," the Soldier says, peering at him from under the hand wrapped around his face.

Tony stops to level him a supremely unimpressed look. "You've been here probably about as long as I have, given how long it takes news to travel. How much sleep have you gotten?"

"Enough," he says.

"Yeah, I don't believe you," he says, narrowing his eyes. "I think you've maybe gotten five hours in the last two weeks _if that._ "

"Enough," the Soldier repeats, with slightly more death in his eyes.

Well, whatever, if the Soldier preferred to have his usual hallucinations peppered with delusions from sleep deprivation, far be it from Tony to stop him. It wasn't like he was really all that worried about Barnes being a danger to anyone - he hadn't divorced reality hard enough to mistake someone for a HYDRA technician in years. Wouldn't have risked civilians to that, back before the Accords, Tony reasons. It's just not in his nature.

Despite what the Sergeant - and the Asset, apparently - think, Tony is not Barnes' keeper.

-0-

The 1940s are killing Tony, slowly, with despair and frustration. He feels driven to drinking. He feels driven to crying. It's one thing to read history about the first computers ever created being built for the purpose of WWII, and it's entirely another to get slapped in the face with the knowledge that it's like trying to build a Bi-Frost Gate with sticks and stones. It's one thing to write up an entire packet full of supplies that they'll need in order not to construct something _too_ outlandish for the time period, and another entirely to actually hold a vacuum tube in his hand and realize just how badly he's held back by the science of the time.

He's Tony Stark and he can build anything given time and endless resources, but within the constraints of the technology of this time, it might be the hardest thing he's ever done. At this point in time, he keeps reconsidering just reinventing the wheel. He _could._ He's not sure what Howard would do with all of that after he and Barnes get back home, but. At least they _would_ get back home.

On this particular day, Tony decides he needs to have a break or really start drinking again, so when lunchtime rolls around, he makes the decision to join the rest of the base in the messhall instead of hiding in the lab. He hasn't seen the Soldier since that morning - which isn't unusual, honestly, and he isn't surprised about - and he's had more than his fill of Howard. Tony lives in hope that Howard will take his lunch in the lab as usual, or if he comes to the messhall, joins the Captain and Sergeant. Just because he's able to coexist somewhat peacefully with Howard right now doesn't mean he wants to spend more time with him than required.

The last thing he wants to do is eat lunch with the Captain and the Sergeant, of course, which leaves Tony finding some poor private or other staff to hassle, or - well. There's the Soldier, of course, an entire table to himself. He's cleaned up; made use of the straight razor that Tony still hasn't touched. Tied his hair back into the bun he sometimes favors, although it's a mess since Tony's pretty sure that Barnes has been combing it with his fingers alone. His death stare is a lot more potent than the Sergeants, and he's giving it to  anyone who even considers coming near. It's completely the wrong style for the 40s, but Tony is willing to admit that even with the shadows of weary exhaustion on his face, Bucky Barnes has continued to look more like he should be on glossy paper instead of covered in dirt and blood.

Tony ignores it, coming over to settle on the side opposite him. After a guy wakes up to find someone sleeping at their bedside, using their arm as a pillow like the world's largest, saddest dog, no death stare is enough to cancel that out. Must be nice to have the serum to fix cricks in their neck and cramps in their back from sleeping in ridiculous positions.

"Wow," Tony says as he sets his tray down on the table and begins to arrange everything. "What broke the boyband up? Was it the shave? It was the shave, wasn't it. Totally the shaving. The already incredibly jealous old you just couldn't stand it when you decided to look like a real boy, right?"

"Something like that," the Soldier says. Disappointing. Tony was hoping to bait him a bit. Although Barnes has always been particularly resilient to Tony's baiting. Not only did HYDRA rob him of his anger, they took away his self-respect. Awful.

Actually really awful, he thinks suddenly, and seriously: fuck the way his brain works that points that out to him. Tony has already had his share of nightmares over what happened to the Soldier, he doesn't need to revisit that all over again while _maybe_ actually liking Barnes.

A spatter of laughter draws Tony's eye back over to the Captain and Sergeant. They're - this is hilarious, in a horrible way - they're holding court with the Howling Commandos. The Captain has a charming, boyish smile on his face, one that Tony's only seen in movie reels and maybe twice in real life in all the years he's known Rogers, and for once the Sergeant doesn't look like he might explode into the shrapnel that's trapped in his eyes and behind his teeth. Without the Serum active, he looks strange and young and small next to Rogers' broad bulk - despite the fact that Rogers himself hasn't reached his full potential by quite a bit.

"Small scruffy kitten thinks of nothing but murder all day," Tony says, and then: "hey." He turns back to the Soldier, who is watching him watch them. Tony arches his brows but doesn't comment. "Here's a question for you, Bucky - is it Bucky today? It's Bucky today? Okay, Bucky, so question - and feel free to tell me to fuck off, I promise not to take it personally: what, in your expert opinion, ruined Steve Rogers? The war? The modern world? Or -" and here, Tony doesn't hesitate, doesn't flinch; it's not in his personality or nature - "losing you?"

The Soldier doesn't flip the table or punch Tony in the face, so that's something - Tony isn't sure he was actually expecting Barnes to do so when Barnes only rarely reacts with violence outside of combat situations, or because that would be the human response to a question like that. The Soldier just peers across the table at Tony for a long moment, pale as snow, eyes like the blades of knives. Sharp. Dangerous.

But with no malice of their own.

He's both very like and very unlike the Bucky Barnes at the table twenty feet behind Tony. This one regards him wryly with a bitter twist to his mouth. "Probably D - all of the above," he admits.

 _Oh,_ that's very interesting. Except - Tony grimaces. If it had been only one thing, they might have been able to work with that - except the Bucky thing. Tony had already supposed that the Bucky Barnes _he_ had met had been changed by his experiences - expecting anything else would be lunacy - but seeing the Bucky Barnes of WWII really hammers it home.  

Besides, the Captain had his Bucky back already, and that hadn't fixed anything.

"Okay," Tony says, digging into his food. "Here's another question for you, same conditions, although I am endlessly curious - you and the me in your head. What kind of things do you two talk about?"

Tony is focused down on his tray, so he isn't making eye contact with Barnes to break, but through his lashes he still makes note of the way that the Soldier turns his head away. "Dunno," he says, the universal code for 'I don't want to talk about it.' "What do you think we talk about, Stark?"

Not anything fun, honestly; if Tony were Barnes. He's not, though, and the Soldier is crazier than a bag full of wet cats, so trying to make guesses is kind of pointless. Tony wouldn't be entirely surprised if the Tony in Barnes' head did song and dance numbers dressed like Stark Expo girls. He hopes Barnes at least has the decency to realize how truly amazing his calves and butt are.

"Life, the Universe, and Everything?" Tony says with a shrug. "Forget that. Third question. Where in the world did you learn about multiple choice questions? Was it HYDRA? Did HYDRA put you through standardized testing? Because I know they're fucked up, but that's just cruel and unusual and really pretty pointless."

Barnes blinks at him, and then cracks into an awful, rusty noise that startles Tony into looking at him. It takes a moment to recognize the bared teeth as something other than a threat, and then he quickly averts his own gaze.

"Well, well," Tony says, "stop the presses. You _do_ have a sense of humor." Lost somewhere in the back of Tony's mind is something not unlike an excited child giddily squealing: _he thinks I'm funny! Take that, Rhodey!_ Back at MIT, Rhodey had repeatedly asked Tony what in the world he thought he could ever have in common with a twenty-something from the War. Time travel has been a lot less fun than his teenaged self had thought it would be.

"Shut up," the Soldier says, too calm and relaxed to really mean it. "The future didn't invent multiple-choice testing. Learned that one from Sam, though. I might be a killing machine, but I'm one that learns. Wouldn't be worth it, otherwise."

Tony takes a long drink from his cup, not looking up. Licks his lips when he sets it down. "A learning machine, huh," he says. "Okay. I can work with that."

 

-0-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tony:** look, if you're going to have an imaginary me in your head, at least put me in hotpants and heels.  
>  **Bucky:** tony wha  
>  **Steve:** [somehow breaking through timespace] T O N Y **N O**
> 
> The part about imaginary Tony doing a song and dance number originally referenced [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wd_6Y0wQOA) Warners Bros cartoon. 
> 
> probably not canon, but it entertains me to think that Howard is some young upstart taking advantage of the fancies of rich people to fund his science. I also consider Maria to be Old Money, but that Howard had his own riches through work with the government by the time they met and married.


	4. the worst timeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where tony and bucky hash it out, part 1  
> \--  
>  _He swallows thickly, and breathes. "I hate this," he rasps._
> 
> _"No shit, Stark," he says, "I don't know why you always wait until you're working on my arm to freak out. Guess it's a good thing I'm used to panicky technicians."_

* * *

 

Despite Howard's best efforts, the Starks are not yet extravagant billionaires - that doesn't come until later, during the post-war boom. That Howard has to explain his expenditures to the SSR heads slows down their acquisition of parts to a crawl that would have had Tony swooning dramatically in the modern age but in this one just has him chewing the edge of his thumb anxiously. 

Theoretically, it doesn't matter how long it takes him to get the machine put together, because it's time travel, and the future, and he's trying to reach a specific moment in the future from a time in the past. Theoretically, he can spend years getting the machine together and still get himself and the Soldier back to the moment Tony left the future/present in the first place. Theoretically. 

In actuality, Tony still isn't entirely sure they  _ are _ time traveling. Tony ran into the Captain and the Sergeant and Howard before he could even avoid it, so either this is an incredible fucked up stable Time Loop, in which case the entire SSR base must have gotten their memories wiped somehow, and then explained away the destroyed HYDRA bases -  _ somehow _ \- or the future has already been destroyed and the repercussions haven't hit Tony and the Soldier yet, but they're on borrowed time, or - this isn't their past at all. 

He's really not sure which is the preferable reality. 

In the meanwhile, the Soldier takes a nearly perverse pleasure in wiping the floor with both the Captain and Sergeant. Or so it appears. As Tony has noticed before, the Soldier is a precision machine for one purpose: mission success. If the Soldier is 'playing' with them, it's only in the way that cats play with kittens. 

Tony, well aware that the arm isn't really in a shape that makes this kind of use ideal, finds himself hovering around the edges with the rest of the Howling Commandos, pretending he's not playing the exact kind of worrywart to  _ Bucky Barnes _ as he has to Peter Parker, because - no. Well. Really: no. It's not the same. Similar. Tony is  _ responsible _ for Peter, as his patron superhero or whatever. He just knows he'll be responsible for patching Barnes up because he's the only one that can, thus is makes him nervous when Barnes goes out of his way to put himself in the position to be damaged.

He ends up catching a lucky break in that some of the Howling Commandos are as equally disturbed by the Soldier's effortless domination as they are unable to look away, and he ends up getting roped into a few rounds of cards. It does very little to distract Tony, but it makes it marginally more difficult for him to count the cards on accident, so there's that. 

Of course, Serum or not, the Sergeant tires a lot more quickly than either Captain or Soldier. It puts an awful kind of look in his eye, and he paces along the wall and the Howling Commandos politely pretend they don't notice the way he trembles and shakes and resembles the Soldier in the worse kind of way. It's frankly not any of Tony's business. 

Barnes gives zero fucks as to what Tony feels is his business and isn't, though, so after a few days of that, the Sergeant comes by and gets counted into the unstructured game that they're playing. Despite the way the Commandos pretend not to see the way he's falling apart, they can read the mood, and a few of them fold out to leave Tony to the Sergeant's 'tender' mercies. 

Tony isn't wild about the way people in this time keep leaning into his personal space, and especially not when it's Barnes. He has the eerie feeling that Barnes is going to put the arc reactor right back in his chest, meat and muscle and blood filled with shreds of broken metal.  

"So how's that machine of yours coming?" the Sergeant asks. 

"It's getting completed just about as fast as two Starks can make it," Tony says. "You understand that punching through the time-space continuum isn't something accomplished in a fortnight?" 

"Sure," he says, "but the way you and Stark Junior were going at it, it couldn't hurt to ask." 

"Howard  _ has _ been pretty indispensable as an assistant," Tony says grudgingly. Assistants aren't really Tony's thing, but in situations like this, they do come in handy. 

"You don't like him much," Barnes observes with a sharp, knowing glance. "You two don't get along back home?"

Tony can't help the wry twist of his mouth - there's too much to feel strange and bitter about: that this is Bucky Barnes, making unaware assumptions about Tony's home life, that he uses the term 'back home' for it, and the recurrence of Tony being the  _ older _ Stark. "Not in so many words," he says, not entirely sure why he's answering that. "Never much liked each other." 

"I can see why." The Sergeant plays his next card without paying it nearly as much attention as he should if he wants to win against Tony. "He's not very smart about people. Not like you are." A smile hooks into the corner of Barnes' mouth, like steel through a wriggling worm, and the glance he gives Tony is sharp like shattered glass no matter how he tries to soften it through a mask of lashes. 

Tony smirks, because that's - kind of bewildering. Horrifying is another good term for it. If Tony wasn't so apt at reading ill intent, that coquettish glance might have worked. "Smart? Yes," he says. "Smarter about them than you, Sergeant Bucky Barnes. Don't try to teach 'gramps' how to suck eggs." They both know that Tony isn't nearly blond enough to be his type. 

The Sergeant isn't nearly as unperturbed about being called out as he strives to look, his ears burning bright red around the edges. He shrugs it off with the ease of someone accustomed to making playful advances and getting rejected, which is an interesting counterpoint to how sharp and bitter the pinch of his eyes is. "Alright," he says, his gaze seeking out the two super soldiers having a vicious knock-down drag out in the middle of the hall. "So what  _ did _ happen to me in your world?" 

Tony follows his gaze. Like Tony, the Soldier had been dressed in the same fatigues the rest of the Commandos were, and unlike Tony and the Sergeant but as with the Captain, there weren't actually cuts meant to accommodate the width of his shoulders or the thickness of his muscle. Clean shaven with his hair pulled back, it's clearer than ever that the Soldier is older than the Sergeant. Some of that is premature, pure weariness and grief. 

"That's not my story to tell," Tony says evenly. "But I will this much - he paid a price no one would choose to pay to learn the skills he is  _ giving  _ you and Captain Rogers." 

"Well, shit," Barnes says. 

They play the next few rounds in silence, punctuated only by the awful sounds of men beating the shit out of each other and the Soldier's fist impacting the shield. Nearly every time, it almost shakes it out of the Captain's grip, because whatever Howard thought that Rogers would use it for, he never planned for something not unlike a tank round striking it directly. 

"So what is your story to tell?" the Sergeant asks, and when Tony makes a questioning noise, still thinking about which components in particular will need him to look at them, Barnes clarifies. "You said you couldn't tell me about him," he says, nodding out at the Soldier. "So what can you tell me?" 

"I can tell you a lot of things, but none of it is going to make you happy," he says. 

"You keep saying that," the Sergeant points out, eyes sharp. "You sure you don't mean it won't make you happy?" 

"It's pretty much the same difference," Tony says with an unpleasant smile. Personal betrayals are his own weight to bear, and no one but himself care about them anyway, so they don't factor into his decisions about other people. He's no saint, of course, as the Soldier himself proved. But he knows how little it weighs against the world ending. "It's the same stuff it always is, Sarge. Might want to get used to having that sword in your hands. There's not really going to be a chance to make them into plowshares for a very, very long time." 

"You think the war is going to go on that long?" 

The Sergeant looks incredibly young watching him warily, searching his face for answers. Fresh faced like kids throwing up peace signs that would put weapons moguls out of business. Tony will blame nostalgia for why he smiles, thin enough to cut glass, and says, light and unconvincingly: "Right. The war." 

Sergeant Barnes is not a stupid man; he exhales, slow and unhappy, and looks away. He must have enough to think about because he doesn't pursue further conversation; it's all the same to Tony, honestly. Or would be, except that a few rounds later, the Soldier starts snarling at the Captain in Russian of all happy things. 

Both Tony and the Sergeant are on their feet. Tony winces as the Soldier insists, " _ faster! Do it faster! You'll never save anyone like that! _ " 

"Ouch," he says, "sounds like you still have a few issues to work out with your buddy, the Captain, there." Barnes cuts him an incredulous look, tense and uncertain. "Alright! Alright, enough," Tony calls out. "Stop. Stop!" 

The Captain looks like he'd  _ like _ to stop but is scared to try, which - Tony can't really blame him for, because there is a vicious sharpness to the Soldier's movements that suggest he might try taking the Captain's head off. While Rogers of the future might have been willing to let his good ol' buddy take his head off, this Captain  _ has _ a Barnes that he needs to stay alive for. 

"Hey,  _ Frosty, _ knock it off or the next time I fix that, I'll dial the nerve receptors up to eleven!" 

Tony's threat isn't fast enough, and might not have worked anyway; even if Tony was willing to do that, it wouldn't hold a candle to what HYDRA did to him. It doesn't matter in either case, because Rogers' face tightens and when he swings the shield this time, it doesn't bounce off the Soldier's arm. It crunches into it. 

The sound rattles through Tony's chest like a death knell. 

The room goes strange in a sickeningly familiar way, slightly pale or gray. He's beside his body but stuck looking at the room through its eyes, and something jangling and electric fills his limbs with a distant buzz of sensation. The table is rough and not steady enough for his hands and suddenly there are just too many  _ people _ around, although no one is crowding him. It feels like that. It feels like they are. 

Tony makes himself sit down, and clamps one hand around his brow in a desperate bid to isolate himself from the rest of the room for a second. He's  _ fine. _ He's in the 1940s, with fucking  _ Bucky Barnes _ of all people, and WWII is playing out while he works with Howard to build a machine that will punch through the space-time continuum but he's  _ fine, _ no one has left him in a bunker in Siberia with a disabled suit and they've already fought off the alien menace, at least for  _ now, _ and he's fine. 

Or no, he's not, he hasn't been fine since he was seventeen and his parents were murdered, but that's just 'situation: normal.' He can handle it. He can. He's done it all this time, he can do it a little more. God. It's always just a little more, just a while longer. When does it  _ stop? _

Tony has his elbow propped on the table, one hand clasping the back of his neck and the other locked on his bicep so that the trembling is less noticeable by the time the Sergeant gets finished berating both the Captain and Soldier. Tony is honestly a little surprised that the Soldier is tolerating it with the way his arm is hacked up. It's not spitting sparks or anything as vulgar as that -  _ Tony _ designed it after all - but the plates are trying to lock back into place every five seconds or so, whirling and clicking and straining as the bent parts snagged against each other. 

"What, exactly, did I tell you about fixing the arm just eight days ago," Tony asks as the Soldier finally comes over to present him with the damaged arm. The Soldier's mouth is flat and there is death in his eyes, and Tony doesn't really give a fuck but at least most of his shaking is back under control. 

The arm strains. It sounds like Dummy when he manages to wedge himself into somewhere he shouldn't be in the first place, and Tony is furious at the reflexive surge of irritated affection that he feels at the sound. Tony already likes Barnes against his will enough as it is without him sounding like something Tony built and  _ loves _ like that. 

The Soldier sighs. "Lost my temper," he admits. 

"Yeah, the shouting in Russian didn't give you away at all," Tony says. The expression on Barnes' face is wiped clean, sharp eyes wary. Willing to accept that he'd gotten himself in this situation and Tony had every right to withhold treatment. 

Tony never planned to withhold in the first place, but the fact that the Soldier seems to think for one instant that any amount of anger that he feels would convince him to is nauseating. Insulting, but also nauseating, and given what happened leading up to the injury, Tony can't really hold it against him. Barnes has actually held up incredibly well given the circumstances. The resilient son of a bitch. 

"You're shameless," he accuses. "Also you owe me. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than a screwdriver to get that back into shape and I don't have the resources or equipment to repair or replace the plates you damaged. I'm a genius and a miracle worker, but there are still limits to what I can do. Contrary to public opinion, I can't upgrade a phone just by standing near it." 

"Thought for sure they caught that one on camera," the Soldier says dryly. 

Tony arches his brow. "That was a sleight of hand because some reporters have a sick sense of humor," he says, getting to his feet. At the time he'd been in the middle of a breakdown and everyone knew it, and someone always wanted their big break no matter what price it came at. "Let's see if I can talk Howard out of a corner of his lab without him getting ideas." 

-0- 

They can't, of course. Tony had hoped, but of the changes that occurred in Howard's behavior between now and when he had a kid, the fact that he couldn't respect intellectual property wasn't one of them. Howard never did understand why a young Tony had been so grievously injured by his father getting his hands on one of his ideas and taking it steps farther in a direction that Tony never meant for it to go. It was always  _ 'Tony was playing around and I took the idea to it's natural conclusion' _ as if the natural conclusion of anything should ever be so… ugly. 

Although that could have just been a result of Tony's hurt feelings, of course. By the time Tony was fifteen, he jealously protected his inventions and could barely keep a civil tongue where it came to Howard, which wasn't helped by his mom trying to keep the peace and Howard just  _ not getting it. _

So with that in mind, Tony isn't really all that surprised when Howard agrees to let Tony use his equipment, but insists on looking over Tony's shoulder and asking questions. 

It isn't until now that Tony realizes Barnes tends to relax a little when he works on the arm - because the Solder isn't relaxed at all. Even slightly slouched on the stool next to the table - unlike HYDRA, and unlike Tony's lab, Howard didn't have a reason to have a space arranged for someone's arm to be worked on - there's tension in his body, face blank and eyes fixed on some distant spot across the lab. 

Tony hadn't thought anything special about it the first time Barnes had reluctantly allowed Tony a quick battlefield patch, or when that had gradually moved to regular maintenance in Tony's lab. There had been no particular reason for Barnes to trust him at that juncture, and Tony hadn't really cared. 

Now, in Howard's lab with the Soldier pulling his - well,  _ Soldier _ routine, Tony feels vaguely sick and uncomfortable. He kind of wants to put his palms on Barnes and shush him like a wild animal, or something. Tony has never even been around wild animals. Usually people are putting their palms on  _ Tony _ and shushing  _ him. _ It's unsettling to have the tables turned. Tony blames the sound of Barnes' arm. There have been a few times when Tony might have been drunk and crooned at his kids once or twice or countless times over the years. 

There's no threat of Tony slipping up and actually putting his hands on the Soldier, though, because Tony can practically feel Howard's breath on the back of his neck. "Could you not  _ hover, _ " he finally snaps, drawing his shoulders up. "It's very distracting and this is all very patented, anyway." 

Howard snorts gently with amusement, drawing slightly back. "Yeah, in another world," he says. "Surely patents don't hold up across dimensional lines. You have to see how we could benefit from this build - all the soldiers we could fit with limbs like this one, who could keep fighting." 

Tony's stomach turns. That's Howard's salesman voice, the goading, coaxing,  _ you're being unreasonable _ voice. He cuts the man a look. "It's not easy to build and it's a godawful pain to install," he says sharply. Actually, there isn't really a humane way to install the hardware that makes the arm the masterpiece it is. It probably wouldn't work for anyone that wasn't a super soldier already anyway. 

There's a knock at the lab door, and then who should stick his head in but Sergeant Barnes, which is just - spectacular timing. The  _ Sergeant _ already has the serum.  _ He _ would survive it. He  _ does _ survive it, the proof is frozen stiff under the screwdriver and pliers that Tony is being forced to make do with. Tony sees him cut up and bleeding on a table with people bolting metal to his broken bones and is forced to breathe through the moment. Jesus. The Sergeant looks so  _ young. _

"What is it?" Howard asks shortly. 

The Sergeant takes in the entire scene with one sharp sweep that he manages to hide behind a mask of lashes and the ragged ends of his bangs. The look he gives Howard is all wide-eyed and open, blinking with a slightly gormless expression. "Steve thinks the balance of his shield might be a little off, he wants you to look at it," he says, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 

"Sure," Howard says distractedly, "later. Tell him to bring it by." 

Tony returns his attention to the arm in a hurry, glancing up at the Soldier's face; Barnes is still off in never-never land, and Tony would love to take it slowly to avoid startling him or triggering any flashbacks, but with the way Howard is being - Tony can't just kick the man out of his own lab. He doesn't have his own money or resources or equipment, and if he pushes, Howard might decide to force the matter. No one will miss a couple of time travelers. 

"Not exactly a good place to throw the thing, Mr. Stark," the Sergeant says, which is objectively awful. It's one thing to be accustomed to Howard existing without hearing him called Mr. Stark. That's a thing that hasn't happened in almost thirty years. It's doing weird things to Tony's brain. "Steve thinks it's got a wobble that'll only come out after a longer flight." 

"That's because it's not meant for long distance throws," Howard says, exasperated. "Despite what Steve seems to think, it's not meant to be used as a frisbee. He's not supposed to throw it at all, actually." 

"He's going to anyway, and I think we'd both prefer it if he survived throwing his only goddamned protection at the enemy," the Sergeant says dryly. 

Howard sighs in a manner that Tony is only too familiar with, that puts his hackles up. He can feel the man's eyes upon him, upon his work, but right now Tony is deliberately fiddling around the inside of the arm with a screwdriver, carefully freeing the smaller moving parts inside it. It looks much more boring than putting the arm to rights. 

"Fine, fine," Howard says shortly. With one last dissatisfied look toward Tony and the Soldier, Howard heads for the door and is gone in a matter of moments. 

"Well," Tony says into the empty lab, setting the screwdriver aside so that he can coax the remaining plates to blossom open for him. "The Sergeant was being uncommonly helpful. Wonder what he actually wanted." 

As the plates unlock and open up, the tension gradually goes out of the Soldier. He blinks heavily, like coming out of a daze. 

"Hi, hello, welcome back," Tony says. "I get that it's easier and all, and before you say anything, I don't hold it against you - but if you could not just up and leave me at random times, I'd be very thankful. We're in this together, you know." 

The Soldier shivers and shudders on the stool. Tony had sliced the sleeve of the shirt off rather than risk asking Barnes to take the entire thing off. Well, a part of that was because  _ Howard, _ but the rest of that was because he understands what it's like not to want the site of the prosthetic revealed. It's just that for Tony, his prosthetic had been mostly  _ inside _ him. Still. 

"Dad sure is something else," Tony continues with a derisive snort. "You don't just bolt a prosthetic on kids who got blown up and send them back to the frontlines. I know mental health in the United States sucks, but it's kind of blowing my mind that he thinks anyone can take getting a limb blown off and then go back out there." 

"Feeling bad for for me?" the Soldier observes, despite how it's phrased as a question. "I thought I'd been dealing with it better than that. I didn't realize the Howlies were just being respectful and not talking about it." 

Tony glances up at his face; it's a complicated kind of look. A bit of bitterness, but mostly thoughtful observation. Seeing himself outside of himself. That's a kind of funhouse mirror Tony could go his entire life without looking through. He had FRIDAY to make these kinds of observations about Tony, because it's too weird watching himself in his own security footage. 

"Yeah, you're battle shocked all to hell," Tony agrees. "Still are, actually. Which. Fine. It's all fine. Me, too, honestly. Which, you know. I'm sure you've noticed." 

"No, really?" the Soldier asks dryly, which fuck him, anyway. See if Tony tries having another heart to heart with the jackass. Tony  _ hates _ that kind of thing, anyway, he's not sure why he thought it would be any good for Barnes to try in this case. 

"I would say my episodes of acting out are less expensive than yours," he continues, "but my suit is still worth more than your entire arm, Vibranium alloy and Wakandan programming or not. Freaked the hell out of the Sergeant with the snarling, though." 

The Soldier snorts, watching him. "You freaked him out a lot more with your talk of a neverending not-war."

"Well, that answers some questions about super soldier hearing, at least," Tony says. He's not entirely surprised, really, given what he's already observed, but Rogers had been a pain in the ass about having his limits tested, getting weird and mulish about it even though the data could have been important. You know. At some point in time if they'd ever decided to actually be a  _ team _ and Natasha hadn't run off with him to SHIELD. That worked out just great, didn't it? 

"I also read lips," Barnes says. Grimaces, and then swallows tightly. "Better in Russian than English. Wasn't anything they meant to teach me." Then transparently trying to change the subject, he says, "I thought you were against telling them anything."

"Not entirely," he says uncomfortably, glancing up; he accidentally meets Barnes' gaze and drops his own in a hurry. Reading lips isn't easy in the first place, and Tony hadn't noticed the Soldier paying them any special attention, but - well, he wouldn't, would he? Being noticed wouldn't have been conducive to Barnes learning the skill in the first place. "I just think it's an awful idea for them to think we might know how the war plays out." 

Barnes inhales; no sound, just the sudden, subtle heave of his chest. So likely he hadn't considered that before, which is fine, because Tony's been thinking of it a lot. 

Mouth slanting to the side, not quite a smile, Tony says, "the chances are pretty good that there's not a damned thing the American government can do to keep you down, Bucky." Well, that's - Tony glances up and squints at him suddenly, tries, "James?" out for size, and thinks that probably fits better. Barnes is too distracted with the sudden danger he's become aware of to really react either way. 

"We could end HYDRA," he says, dazed. 

"Uh. For the record, I'm against American Interventionism. I was for the Accords from the beginning, remember?" He focuses closely on what he's doing inside the arm to avoid Barnes' gaze, because the reaction of people hearing the man who armed the military for decades saying things like that is never great, and once Barnes was a soldier himself. He's the Merchant of Death if he arms them, and a hypocrite when he stops. "It worked so well last time they were supposed to be 'wiped out,' didn't it? We'd need time and resources we frankly don't have." He glances at the tight, corded length of Barnes' body, sat on the stool next to him, and adds, "besides. How familiar are you with the butterfly effect? Who is to say we don't try fixing everything and end up with an even worse future?" 

"Worse than  _ us? _ " Barnes asks. It sounds like the angry red scars that scrape out from the joint of metal and flesh, awful and infected, and the constant burn of a super soldier's fever fighting it off. 

Tony thinks of always trying to help, always trying to fix things, and always just making them worse. And so his voice is hushed when he says, gently, "It can always get worse." Barnes' eyes are bright, like the edges of something shattered, and that's too much. "This might feel like the worse timeline," Tony says, looking away. "But I can think of a lot worse ones, James. You got away from them in this one - maybe not whole, maybe not as the man you used to be, but you did. What about the timeline where you don't? What about the one where they test that serum out of someone with less willpower than you? What about the one where Natasha doesn't come in from the cold, or Manhattan gets the nuclear bomb, or - or I never wake up and my weapons are still sold to our enemies. What about -" He swallows, and has to duck his head for a moment to gather his strength. "What about the one where it doesn't work, and Thanos wins?" 

There's a good chance that will always haunt him - his own personal nightmare for the last six years. It's mostly - finally - over, but it continues to haunt him, because they shouldn't have stood a chance. It still rattles around inside him - in his heart and in his brain - the fact that  _ they could have lost everything. _ An entire multitude, erased. Nothing but dust. 

"Okay," Barnes says quietly. "Okay. Alright, Tony."

He swallows thickly, and breathes. "I hate this," he rasps. 

"No shit, Stark," he says, "I don't know why you always wait until you're working on my arm to freak out. Guess it's a good thing I'm used to panicky technicians." 

"I'm not  _ panicky, _ " Tony objects, despite the fact that he can't quite sit up straight, his arms and shoulders oddly loose: that awful feeling like he's not entirely in control of his body, like it might do something without allowing for his consideration. 

"Yeah, you are. Still holding it together better than I am. Not sure any of this is really happening," Barnes says. The admission clearly makes him uncomfortable, and he bares his teeth in something feral that's only distantly related to a smile. Unlike the Sergeant's sunshine smile, it just makes him look deranged. "You being so -" he gestures at Tony, like that explains anything, Tony has so many faults it could be anything, "isn't exactly helping much." 

"What," Tony says, "not living up to my hallucinations standards?" 

Barnes is quiet for a beat, and then says, "Well, I can usually tell the difference if I try. Which means you're just enough of an asshole to be real." 

"Well, that's not right. My hallucination can't actually get punched in the face. You clearly have his characterization all wrong - I absolutely would take advantage of being intangible to say all the things I normally don't," Tony says, and thank god at least he can pull himself together. Sit up straighter and at least pretend to poke around the arm. And fucking  _ Bucky, _ who calls him panicky and says nothing about how long it takes him to get his shit together. 

"You mean you don't just say whatever comes to mind," Barnes asks dryly. 

He could make another joke about it, but he's not really in the mood. "I know a lot of very dangerous, very powerful people. With all available data, the clear conclusion is that, no, presumably I don't," he says bluntly. It's even true. Tony's mouth only gets him in real trouble when he  _ cares _ what someone thinks of him. 

Barnes huffs, but he's relaxing on the stool - and that makes it easier for Tony to relax as well. He seriously doubts that Barnes would ever  _ mean _ to hurt him, not at this stage: he's like Bruce, but with fear in the place of rage. Of course, not meaning to doesn't mean it wouldn't happen. 

"Yeah, trust me," he says, "I'm not underestimating you." 

Well, that's - Tony would say that's ominous, but it's. Weirdly. Flattering. It's not like a lot of people blatantly underestimate him, although it feels like it a lot of the time, but a lot of people aren't legendary ghost-legend assassins, either. 

"Why not?" he prods. He doesn't have to pretend preoccupation with the arm. Trying to straighten out the crumpled struts is taking up most of his time - they weren't strictly meant to collapse, but Tony  _ had _ designed crumple zones into the arm. Possibly a stupid design choice. At the same time, if Barnes was caught by his arm and it  _ couldn't _ crumple to allow him to escape, the thought had been - eurgh. "Most people do."

"I'm not most people," Barnes says, as if Tony would ever forget. "And neither are you. You're so goddamned scary people forget no one ever trained you for it, Tony." He shifts, carefully not jarring his left arm. "Mark that down for one of your awful timelines: the one where HYDRA gets their hands on Tony Stark." 

"Okay, let's not," Tony says sharply, immediately rejecting that scenario and all that would be entailed with it. Seriously, fuck that. HYDRA already got ahold of too much of his tech through SHIELD. He doesn't want to think about what they'd have  _ him _ build. Or how they'd make him do it. 

But Tony doesn't build things like that anymore, hasn't for years, so he's a bit bewildered by Barnes' assertion about him being  _ scary. _ He's not scary, or if he were, people would stop trying to doublecross and manipulate him. Or. Wanting things from him, and becoming horrific domestic terrorists in order to take revenge against him. And threatening him. And starting wars with him. Jesus. 

"Speaking of training," he says, grasping for a subject change, "don't think I didn't notice that you've gone total Red Room on our darling little Justice and Murder kittens." 

Barnes lets him, a little bemused as he asks, "Why  _ kittens? _ "

"Why not kittens? You do know you can't just take them home with you, no matter how cute they are at this stage. Although, they  _ are _ cute," Tony admits begrudgingly. Even Rogers. God. He still has that residual feeling that the troops are  _ his _ somehow, to arm and protect. It's awful. "One day, they'll grow up, and then it's just - lions. And bears. Oh my." He pauses for a second. "Also please tell me I'm not going to have the Captain after my hide after the Sergeant's little brief flirt with the  _ idea _ of charming me."

"Now,  _ that _ was embarrassing," he says, "but Steve's not going to think twice about it. He learned a thing or two 'bout battin' his lashes to get his way from me." 

"Yeah? Should try baiting the trap with honey more often," Tony grumbles. He probably would have handled everything better if Rogers  _ had. _ Or maybe the betrayal would have been twice as bloody if Tony had made the mistake of believing that sweetness. He likes to think he wouldn't have, but he'd fallen for it when it had been Natasha, the Triple Imposter. He  _ would _ have fallen for it from the Sergeant, if only he hadn't glared murder at Tony so often before trying it. 

"Don't think I'd like it much if Steve were being sweet on you," Barnes says. 

Tony rolls his eyes. "Yeah, no worries about that one," he says. "Captain America's heart is true and unwavering. As is his aim. And intuition, I'd guess, since he's good enough with end-user friendly interfaces in the modern time but still sucks  _ so badly _ with less intuitive operating systems. If he'd aimed an inch higher, your arm would be well and truly fucked, Bucky Barnes." 

"Or if you weren't so sharp," he points out, and Tony looks up at him, suspicious. 

"Did you think I would half-ass this?" he asks seriously - only that's not the question he's really asking, but he's not sure what that is, either. 

"No," Barnes says bluntly. "I know you wouldn't. I wanted this arm." 

"Well, I am the best," he says, nonplussed. People loved his builds, he knows this - and he always gives them, as necessary, because he can, he can afford to. And they're always thankful. Grateful. Most of the time. Often enough it isn't really too bothersome when they aren't. And yet. 

Barnes had  _ agreed _ to let Tony design the arm, he'd thought. That's how he remembers it. 

That's apparently not how  _ Barnes _ remembers it, and while Tony thinks his memory is probably more reliable, that's - that's something. Surely the Wakandans had offered to build Barnes a new arm, or at least that's the assumption that Tony had made, and then unmade once the arm was complete, and now he's forced to remake that assumption, because. It sounds like Barnes  _ preferred _ a Stark built arm. Which. He's the best, that's not surprising. But. 

"Still didn't hold up against Rogers," he says, because they've been in this lab for a while now, and he's still trying to straighten out what Rogers broke. 

"Yeah, well, he isn't good at pulling his punches, or knowing when he should," Barnes says with a frown, soft and distracted. "Especially not right now. I don't think he got used to his body until later. Used to be, it didn't matter how hard he hit someone. It wasn't going to do much more than bruise." 

"Yeah, not really in the mood for excuses, Laffy Daffy," he says. 

When they get back home, he'll need to get in touch with the Wakandan techs who had helped him design the arm - Tony's the engineer behind it, of course, but if he is going to make it shield resistant, it'll need significant interior redesigns, and the Wakandans knew what kind of hardware was required to run the programming that interfaced between Barnes' nerves and the arm itself. 

He's kind of looking forward to it. 

-0-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bucky:** wow look at all this PTSD i have  
>  **Tony:** bitch me too the fuck  
>  \- later -  
>  **Bucky:** I like you, do you like me? Circle Yes or No  
>  **Tony:** shut up, i know your favorite is steve :\ :\ :\  
>  **Bucky:** babe pls 
> 
> This scene got really entirely too long, so next update will be this scene cont. Sergeant Barnes Now Comes Included!!! With realistic Bickering Action!!!!! Who doesn't like Tony having Siberia flashbacks and continuing to freak the fuck out about it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


	5. picking and choosing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an old, familiar rage by now, sick and hot and smoldering; worse than shrapnel or palladium poisoning. It's so incredibly easy to look this young soldier in the eye and say with complete and brutal sincerity: "Never once in his life has he ever come to save anyone else but _you._ " 
> 
> \--
> 
> rehashing siberia goes great!!!!!!!!! Also the origins of the arm, and Sergeant Barnes Gets a Clue

* * *

 

Tony works in near silence. He's finally untangled all the crumpled support struts inside the arm, unlatching them so they fall out of the way on the interior of the arm, and hooking the plates onto the emergency struts that he'd kept folded against them. That was one thing about this stupid fishscale design that Barnes had insisted on - plenty of room for Tony to sneak little extras in the inside. 

It's a little tricky with the damage done to the arm, like those little plastic puzzle balls that come apart in symmetrical scoops and told together by virtue of being arches. Making sure that the plates will be able to move smoothly without snagging will take a bit of work, but Tony's fairly secure in this being just as boring as him unsticking the plates, and so doesn't worry overly much about Howard coming back before he's done. At least it absorbs most of his attention, so he doesn't feel too weirdly about being pinned by the Soldier's sharp eyes. Either way, he keeps his focused on the work at hand. 

Well. Mostly.  What's left is part nerves from a couple of hundred of pounds of killing machine staring at him, the rest is still knotted up equally around the void of space and selfishly begging Barnes to go through seventy years of torment when it might be something they could change. 

But Barnes is a good soldier, through and through. He'll lay down on the wire if he's asked to. 

God, if Tony saw a way around it - a way of assuring that they could change it all and still survive the annihilation waiting for them in the void, then he'd be on it in a heartbeat. If he can just find a way of cutting the wire - what? Find the tesseract? Bring it back to the future with him? To a future that would be changed? Would the tesseract even tolerate coexisting in the same timeline? Howard had neither ability nor means to deal with it here and now. For what good that would do - it's not the only Stone on Earth, after all. 

Barnes doesn't exactly tense, but he shifts, looking toward the door; it's enough to distract Tony into halting his work and glancing up. Only a few seconds later, there's a perfunctory knock and then the door pops open. It's not entirely surprising to see Sergeant Barnes stick his head in again - he had to have been after something earlier, Tony remembers, before he'd gotten sidetracked in luring Howard off. 

"We still good on time?" Tony asks. 

"Yeah," the Sergeant says, sidling into the lab with a keen expression of interest on his face. "Steve's giving Howard the ol' run-around." He dips his head at the arm. "Mind if I watch?" 

Well, that's a turn around from the first time Barnes had seen the arm. Then again, this had all been new to him and he hadn't known it was  _ his _ then, either. Tony would be attracted to anything bright and shiny and new, but he can admit that he'd be a lot  _ more _ interested if it were attached to - well, another of himself. 

After a moment without a reply, Tony looks at the Soldier. "It's your arm," he says pointedly. Barnes hasn't looked away from the Sergeant this entire time, face blank, but he glances at Tony and shrugs his right shoulder. Slightly exasperated, Tony shrugs right back at him and then glances at the Sergeant. "Be our guest." 

He only pays attention out of the corner of his eye as the Sergeant enters the lab area - slow and cautious, like he might be stepping on landmines at any moment. The Soldier doesn't tense, but watches him, wary and sharp. Once - while they were together, sharing the same bed before the nightmares drove her out of it - Pepper had snickered and showed Tony a video of kittens discovering their reflections for the first time.  _ It's you and the suit, _ she'd teased. One of the few times she'd been able to accept that he and the suit were one. 

It's much more accurately applied to Barnes. Tony would be worried about the fact that he's stuck on kitten imagery when it comes to Barnes, but honestly, he's been savaged by kittens before. They're ornery and wild; sociopathic murderers masquerading as pets. Very fitting in Tony's mind.  _ Small scruffy kitten who thinks of nothing but murder all day discovers reflection, is suitably outraged. _

"By the way, thanks for getting rid of Howard," Tony says, returning his attention to the arm. Now that he has a buffer in the chance that Howard makes a sudden reappearance, he can probably make a much better patch job of it. The emergency struts will  _ work, _ but they're not as precise as the main struts are; there are a lot of gaps in the fishscaling now. Tony hooks his foot under Barnes' chair and leans back, reaching for the strips of metal that Howard had offered for him to make new plates out from. Thumping his fingernail against it, he grimaces. It won't hold up to anything, but if he cuts it carefully, it'll at least lock with the rest of the plates and keep debris out. If crud gets inside the arm, it'll jam all the delicate moving pieces and be a bitch to clean. 

"Sure," the Sergeant says, gradually easing up on Tony's side, gaze flickering between the Soldier and the arm. Tony takes a moment to imagine what it must look like, with all the plates peeled back to bare the inner workings. "Steve's the one doing the hard work, though. Isn't too happy about it either." 

Tony doesn't particularly care, but, "I was under the impression that they were - well, maybe not friends, but colleagues?" 

"You'd think that," the Sergeant says dryly, "and I think Steve does like him, in a way, but he's wary when it comes to guys like Howard. He still thinks thinks of himself as that scrawny kid that kept getting overlooked." 

"Howard used his charms on Peggy Carter," the Soldier translates. "And Steve don't share so well." 

"Howard uses his charms on everyone," Tony says with a disbelieving smirk. His parents had never fought over it - Tony had always been more upset about it than his mom - but even when his hair had gone white, Howard couldn't quite help but play a certain kind of game with any pretty lady present. "And Peggy's too smart to fall for it anyway." 

"Yeah, heart isn't always rational," the Sergeant says, in a quietly bitter way under his breath that makes Tony incredibly uncomfortably to have overheard. He nods at the Soldier. "How much of that is - is the whole thing gone?" 

The question goes unanswered for a few moments until Tony, not looking up from his work, nudges the Soldier's boot pointedly. Barnes frowns at him for a moment before looking to the arm again. His right hand clenches in his lap - a mirror of what he'd like to do with the left, except the connections were temporarily disabled so he wouldn't tear anything while Tony worked. It's safer to disable the arm in a lab environment than out and about, after all. 

"Most of it," the Soldier admits slowly, and he's never resembled the Sergeant more. "They cut it out of the joint. The bone was infected, I think." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony can see the Sergeant grasp a hand over his mouth, and then shove it up over his eyes for a second, jaw clenched. Tony can relate. Maybe only because he'd been through his own awful, anesthetic-less surgery during when his rib were cut through, can he hear that without grimacing. He's seen the files. Gathering them had become an obsession after Siberia. He knows that Barnes having his shoulder literally cut out of the joint, like a butchered animal, is by far not the worst thing to have happened to him. 

Lowering his hand, the Sergeant turns on Tony. "You made this?" he asks, pale and green and horrified. 

The Soldier's attention sharpens, and before Tony can figure out how to answer that accusation, he says, "Tony made  _ this _ one. Not the one before it." The Sergeant stares at him, eyes darting as he searches for truth in the blank slate of the Soldier's face. "Tony didn't do this to me," Barnes reiterates, and some of the tension goes out of the Sergeant; he cuts a glance at Tony, who is doing his best to pretend he's not in the middle of this awkward mess. It's not the first time someone's guessed the worst of Tony. It won't be the last. 

"Moves just like a real arm," the Sergeant ventures. "Not like those awful fake things they put on people." 

"Of course it does," Tony mutters. "They wired it into him." He glances up, wondering if he's treading too close to crossing confidentiality lines, but Barnes doesn't seem bothered other than the awful slant of his mouth. 

The Sergeant tucks his hand up around the back of his neck, curling in on himself like he can feel it. "Wired it in?" he says, a bit thick. "Like - like a machine?" 

A ripple of tension goes through the Soldier and Tony freezes, even though the arm is disabled. Barnes' right hand clenches and flexes. Clenches and flexes. Kneading around nothing. "It was awful," he says, hollow and haunted. "The first arm. Eight times the strength. Two and a half the weight. It wasn't made clean or neat. My ribs felt fit to crack in half. The whole side of me might just tear off." The cadence is oddly Brooklyn in a way Tony's never heard from the Soldier, but the words themselves have an odd, disconnected quality to them that makes him look up to see that - yeah, Barnes has checked out. His eyes are wide but the skin is tight, something frightened and baleful in the way he stares into thin air three feet to the right. 

It's the kind of look that usually preceded Barnes taking a swing at someone or sometimes more serious attempts at homicide, because PTSD is awful and Barnes has it in spades. It's the first time he's had an episode while Tony's been in the room, and especially so close. Natasha freezes when he goes like this, speaks low and calm and even, and so Tony, too, doesn't move. 

"The balance was off," the Soldier recites emotionlessly. "It was required I learn to fight to accommodate it. Shoot with it. Train with the knives. All over again. And again. Again." The tight knot of his right hand flexes. Shakes. "This is the tool I will use to change the world with. To save it from itself." 

" _ O- _ kay," Tony interrupts, hushed, calm, not wanting to startle the Soldier but disturbed beyond his ability to tolerate. The  _ wipes _ \- those Tony knew about. He knew about the brainwashing, too. But he can't be expected to sit around and listen to the lies they fed Barnes to use his own better nature to their favor. "James - Bucky. I need you to come back to me right now. You don't have the old arm anymore, remember? Okay? Remember? It got the slightest bit blown off. My fault. I mean, it was an accident. You were trying to -" he pauses, about to say:  _ trying to kill me. _ Despite that it had  _ felt _ like that, despite that his brain had automatically processed Barnes' actions that way, that wasn't - 

The words stick his his throat a bit, but Barnes seems to be  _ listening, _ a bit, maybe, his eyes fixed on some empty spot, but his head tilted a bit. Tony's mouth works silently before he swallows. Words. He's great at words, he can do words. 

"Still," he says. "It was destroyed, okay? You're totally right, by the way. It was. Awful. Ugly. Terrible piece of tech. Too - too cumbersome to tolerate existing. We melted that sucker down and then we built you a new one. This one." He pats the arm under his hands, despite the fact that all feedback to Barnes' nervous system has been turned off. "It's not a tool, it's just an arm.  _ Your _ arm, as a matter of fact - made out of wires and metal, maybe, but that's what you wanted and I'm honestly in no place to judge." 

Barnes blinks, slow and heavy, and his pupils begin to expand out of pinpricks. Tony doesn't dare look away for a split second - the Soldier can put on as many faces as necessary. Pretend to be anyone - even pretend to be himself. It's happened a handful of times that Tony's aware of - FRIDAY tracking his escape from the Compound for a few hours until Barnes comes back to himself and returns of his own accord. Only once had anyone realized he'd been gone. 

In retrospect, Tony's not sure why he never used those instances to remove Barnes from the roster. He'd been looking for excuses. Unless he'd been lying to himself. That's something to think about later or probably never, Tony thinks, watching Barnes. "You back with me now?" he asks. 

Barnes blinks at him, making good, solid eye contact, then glances up to where the Sergeant is hovering at Tony's shoulder. The Sergeant's presence seems to confuse him the most for several long moments, so at least he hasn't been hallucinating  _ himself, _ Tony thinks. Watching awareness bleed into the Soldier's eyes is disconcerting. 

"Yeah," Barnes says at last, and then: "Shit." He looks tired - torn and exhausted, clasping his right hand over his face in exactly the same manner the Sergeant had earlier when he heard  _ they cut it out of the joint. _

"Don't be so quick to throw yourself a pity party," Tony says dryly, pretending preoccupation with the arm. "You're doing great, honestly. I mean. I'm impressed. We're still several measures from any of the multiple worst-case scenarios I've been preparing myself for." 

"Yeah, well, your opinion of me is pretty terrible," the Soldier says. 

"Yes, because of course I regularly design entirely unique prosthetics for people I can't stand," he says shortly, face contorting with the force of his incredulity. He cuts a look at the Sergeant for lack of anyone else to check with -  _ can you believe this guy? Are you hearing this? _ It's a pointless attempt at commiseration, because the younger Barnes just looks increasingly upset. When he looks, the Soldier just gives him a reproachful glance from under his hand. 

"Yeah? And what was your worst-case scenario?" the Sergeant demands to know. His face is tight. "He snaps and kills us all?" 

Tony cuts him a short look. "Uh - that's not going to happen. Neither one of you are terribly inclined to snap and going on killing sprees unless pushed to it. Unless someone around here turns out to be a secret HYDRA agent, there's probably not going to be any killing." He pauses to consider it, then acknowledges, "Now,  _ maiming _ on the other hand..." 

"That's real reassuring," Sergeant Barnes spits. Tony knows Bruce too well to mistake Barnes' anger for anything other than fear alchemized. He'd be yelling, too, if he saw any version of himself just snap right out of reality for a while and the effort required to reel him back in. "What the hell did they do to me?" he demands like he's barely holding back from grabbing Tony and shaking him.

Which. Good. After the scene in the hangar, the chances that the Soldier will object violently to someone manhandling Tony is worryingly high. 

"What do  _ you _ think," Tony says, too sharp and too mean. "Care to explain why you lost your damned mind when he called himself 'the Asset?'" 

Sergeant Barnes blanches again, just like he had the first time. His counterpart doesn't so much as flinch, watching the two of them warily with his hand flattened across one side of his face. 

"They started," the Soldier says, and Tony makes a mindless, wordless noise of negation. His hand lands on the closest part of Barnes that will actually feel it, which ends up being his knee, and it silences him. 

"You just got back, I'm not letting you send yourself back there," he says sharply. He'd drawn his conclusions from the moment the Sergeant had an episode in the hangar, and just thought:  _ of course. _ Of course if HYDRA were testing the serum, they'd have contingencies in case it worked. If not that, then sleeper agents. Bombs, of a sort, if it went wrong like it did with Red Skull, like it did with Bruce Banner, like it did with the Abomination. 

The Sergeant sucks in a rough, wet breath. "Steve - no one came for you?" he asks. 

"Of course Steve came," he says, the furthest thing from reassurance. His mouth twists. "Freedom just didn't stick." 

"Well, this whole conversation is just barrels full of fun," Tony grumbles under his breath. His knuckles ache. He belatedly realizes that his grip on Barnes has to be painful, as hard as he's squeezing, and he lets up, patting his knee awkwardly. Then, because he's Tony Stark, after all, his mouth opens up and he says, frankly: "It could have been worse. I mean. Instead of -" he gestures abstractly at the Soldier, "there could have been  _ nothing. _ That's. You know. A thing." 

He cringes a bit under the dual stares of two soldiers. "Alright, alright, I'm done anyway." In a few moments, he had the plates mostly in order before he reconnected the arm. It purrs in familiar tones as the plates flex free of their resting state, calibrating around the emergency structs and the additional gap fillers he'd attached. "It's far from perfect, but it's as perfect as I can get it with everything I have here. The plates probably won't hold up against your usual shenanigans, Bucky, so please: try to refrain from pissing off super soldiers? Just for a little bit." 

Tony gives the arm a habitual pat, smoothing over the sleek length from elbow to wrist, just behind the wave of plates locking together. Despite having to improvise replacements, there didn't seem to be any serious imperfections in the way they fit. Still a little laggy, but not unexpected, given the level of damage Barnes had done to it. He sits back as Barnes lifts the arm and clenches his fist, straightening the arm out flat and then pulling it in toward his chest to test the range of motion. It'll more or less work perfectly for him as an arm, but it's down a few measures of strength. 

"So you didn't make the first one," the Sergeant says, subdued. "You made this one, though?" 

"Yes," Tony answers, shifting in his seat to get a better look at Barnes. "One of the unique prosthetics I've designed. I'm not really in the prosthetics field, but it's not like I could trust it to anyone else." 

"It's a little bit fancier than anything else I've seen," he says.  

Of course it is. There isn't really a way to hide that, not with the plates. Their movements were too complex to be mistaken for anything else. Another thing that Tony had hated about the design. Sure, his suit had plates, but not like Barnes' arm did. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Howard," Tony says with a smirk, "it's all very, very patented." 

"Like I could hope to copy it," Barnes says dryly. "I went to art school. I box. I don't build flyin' cars." 

The Soldier huffs. "Neither does Howard," he says, glancing at Tony. 

"No," Tony agrees, folding his arms across his ribs. As if he needs the reminder that the technology his suit is based off of was first dreamed up by Howard in the 1940s. "Howard's ideas are a little ambitious for the current understanding of science. He's still schooled me once or twice." 

The Sergeant eyes him speculatively. " _ Actually _ teaching gramps to suck eggs?" 

Tony tips his head, giving him a flat look. "I happen to be uncommonly flexible," he says dryly, shifting to set the table he'd borrowed to rights. Howard would probably be put out enough that he'd been away during the repairs, and Tony remembers only too well how particular Howard always had been about putting his things back where they belonged. "And a quick study. They say I learn new tricks at an alarming rate." He huffs, bitter, and mutters, "would be dead a few times over if I couldn't." 

The Soldier makes a small, despairing noise. "Nearly was anyway," he says, rueful. Conspiringly, warningly, he says: "This one's clever but he's never met a dare he wouldn't take. Took a stand against Steve and almost didn't make it. You'd think it'd make him think twice, but the only twice it made him was 'as mad.'" 

Tony recoils, and tries to pass it off as getting out of his chair to carry the metal shears to the drawer he'd gotten them from. Christ. That's a familiar tone - all the people who have ever loved Tony even a little bit share that same mixture of pride and despair. Hearing it from  _ Barnes _ of all people is unsettling. Hearing it about  _ Siberia _ is even worse. Tony came away from Siberia with the haunting flavor of coconut and blood in his mouth, and Barnes came away with a brand new hallucination, so aren't they a pair?

"Yeah, you sure know how to pick them, don't you," he says flatly. 

"W-wait, hold up," Sergeant Barnes says. "You were - he was taking a stand against Steve?" He must read the truth of it on his counterparts face, because then he's asking Tony incredulously: "What the hell for?" 

The residual panic and horror trembling through his limbs suddenly flares bright. As if Rogers is infallible! Indisputable! Tony pivots around like he can physically navigate the edges of a panic attack. He can't quite help it. There's no way for him to face this kind of question without falling back on his persona as The Tony Stark of Stark Industries,  _ The _ Iron Man of the Avengers. 

"We were working at cross purposes," he announces, bitter and biting. "I was trying to allay the fears of a world that no longer trusted us, and Rogers was too busy burning it down saving  _ Bucky Barnes _ to listen." It's an old, familiar rage by now, sick and hot and smoldering; worse than shrapnel or palladium poisoning. It's so incredibly easy to look this young soldier in the eye and say with complete and brutal sincerity: "Never once in his life has he ever come to save anyone else but  _ you. _ " 

The soft, sleepless bruising of Barnes' skin darkens as he pales and his face goes tight.  _ This _ is the face of the Bucky Barnes that launched Steve Rogers' thousand warships every goddamned time. And Tony - Tony, who is so good at building things that destroy in the worst possible ways, and sits, quietly dismayed because he wants to be good but good men wouldn't find destruction this  _ easy _ \- Tony wants to sink that fleet and burn Bucky Barnes to the ground. Make them suffer like  _ Tony _ suffered. 

"Tony," the Soldier says quietly, still and watchful and wary where he sits next to the Sergeant. 

"No," Tony says, not looking at him, so clipped that he nearly interrupts Barnes in the middle of his name. It takes effort to look away from the Sergeant's tightening jaw, the dark eyes going fiery with indignation. Some cool, rational part of him knows that this isn't even Barnes' fault, and even if it were (but it  _ isn't, _ ) it definitely wouldn't be this young man so full of anger. "No," he says, locking gazes with the murder machine that sent his life careening off course - not once, but twice. "I am allowed to be bitter about this. That was  _ me _ you left in a HYDRA bunker with no way of leaving." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he grimaces. "God. I sound like Pepper." 

"Miss Potts is a smart lady," the Soldier says, watching him carefully, "you should listen to her."

"Yeah, she'll be happy to hear you say that," Tony says, too sharply, and feels his lip curl as he says, "Or not, actually, because she hates your guts." That's not entirely correct. She doesn't  _ trust _ Barnes, which with Pepper is a lot like hating someone's guts, Tony should know, he's lost hers often enough. 

"She should," the Soldier agrees steadily. "What happened - what we did was wrong. It shouldn't have happened, Tony. I'm sorry." 

The worst part about this is that this isn't the first time Barnes has apologized, and he's not even the one Tony's mad at. Tony shuts his eyes tight as the wave of fury and fear crests, and then it recedes. Loosening his shoulders, he rolls his eyes and throws them and his hands into the motion, too. "Shut up," he bites, and feels defeated, disarmed. "I am - so far past the point where I'm going to accept you fixing Rogers' mistakes for him.  _ You, _ if you might recall, were half dead at the time."

"No. No, you've gotta be - what are you talking about?" Sergeant Barnes' interruption pitches and rolls like a ship on a suddenly violent sea. He'd been inconsequential earlier, with Barnes talking Tony down from a - panic attack, or tantrum, or whatever - but Tony hadn't forgotten him. Aware he'd been watching the argument like a tennis match, but he's clearly reached the end of his patience. "Steve wouldn't do that. He would never leave a man behind,  _ especially _ in a HYDRA base!" 

"Oh, that's just adorable. You have so much confidence and trust in him," Tony sneers, transparently insincere:  _ you poor little deluded thing. _

The Sergeant snarls fury, which is pretty amazing. Before the Sergeant can take one step toward Tony, the way his bright eyes and sharp teeth suggests he wants to - cross the room and smash his fist right into Tony's face - the Soldier's hand clamps around his wrist, and he moves up off the stool to place himself between the two of them.

"Tony, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't try picking a fight," he says reproachfully. 

Tony smothers his first response with his hand, rubbing his mouth roughly and then up over his face and head even as he turns away. God, he hates it when other people get dragged into trying to break up fights that he's starting. "It was a little bit more than  _ 'trying,' _ " he points out, scratching at the short hairs at the back of his neck. "Whatever. Rogers made his choice two years before that, and at the time I was…  _ emotionally compromised, _ and failed to take that into consideration. For his purposes, leaving me there was the right decision." 

"No, it wasn't right," Barnes says sharply. "It was tactically correct, but it was a bullshit fucking move. You should have been able to trust your goddamned team leader."

"Yeah, well, obviously he was never our team leader in the first place," Tony snaps, and no, he can't be having his argument. He can't. He won't. It's whatever. Rogers made his choice. Tony was the enemy at that point, had been for a while, because if he wasn't and everything -  _ everything _ still happened, then that's - it's not something he can cope with. It's not betrayal if there's nothing to betray. 

"Look," he tries again, "You get what you give. I know this. And I'm not exactly the most trusting guy." 

"And if you were, it would have been worse, because I don't think that would have changed his mind," Barnes says. "Steve actively withheld information from you that he had no right to. From where I sit, I don't think you have it wrong not to trust him." The Sergeant makes a dissenting noise beside him, and the Soldier turns on him, staring down with the pitiless, sharp eyes of HYDRA's favorite tool. "This is  _ not  _ the hill you want to die on. I owe Steve Rogers everything - I know that - but he's no saint and pretending otherwise just gets a lot of good people hurt." 

The expression on the Sergeant's face is entirely too familiar to Tony - the one that always happens when the Soldier gets shocked out of a flashback and doesn't recognize his teammates for a second. It's angrier than the expression that the Soldier wears, but it's rude all the same.

"Oh, come on," Tony says, waving a hand at the two of them. "That's like kicking a puppy." 

They both cut him scathing looks, which is incredibly uncalled for, and then the Sergeant rallies. He twists against the Soldier's hold, and the Soldier lets him go if only because he still stands, a physical wall between Tony and him. 

"No, there's no way, Steve wouldn't-" the Sergeant says with a sharp shake of his head. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp as he glances between the two of them, and then focuses on the Soldier. Looks him up and down, defiant. Bitter. Strangely triumphant as he declares, "You're nothing like me. There's no way the Steve from your world is anything like my Steve." 

Tony presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, suddenly just so incredibly exhausted. Everyone always keeps insisting that Rogers is superhuman and infallible, and hearing it so often, Tony had begun to wonder if his biases simply skewed the wrong way. Wouldn't it be nice? To believe in heroes for once? To think that maybe he didn't have to save  _ himself _ all the time? 

But no, Rogers is just as human as the rest of them. Or otherwise Tony just brings the worse out in everyone. It could be that. It could definitely be that. There's data that could support that - or maybe that's correlation and not causation, he can't tell without JARVIS. 

Whichever it is doesn't matter, because the Sergeant doesn't want to hear it, and so he won't. 

Tony sighs and drops his hands. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid," he says. 

"No. He doesn't need to be sleeping," the Soldier says with what might have been loathing if he were capable of it. Mercilessly, he stares down the Sergeant, saying, "You dream Steve into some kind of hero or legend just because being in his shadow terrifies you, and if he's a bigger man than anyone could be then that means you haven't become  _ less _ of one. And he's  _ Steve, _ and there's nothing he wouldn't do for you, so he's gonna try living up to that, and it'll kill him." 

Well, that's one way to wipe the smug look right off the Sergeant's face - he's sheet white again, casting sickly shadows all over his face from how much  _ not sleeping _ he's been doing, staring at the Soldier like his worst nightmare come to life. Tony would probably share some choice comments about all of this, but he's too tired to bother and would honestly rather be done with this conversation. If this is how the Soldier gets about being faced with his younger self, Tony hates to think what  _ he _ himself would say if given the same opportunity. 

And now, looking like a cornered animal no longer capable of telling a kind hand from torment, the Sergeant bares his teeth for a fight that he'll lose the instant the Soldier takes him seriously. "What the hell do you know?" he rasps, rough and terrified. "You don't even know who and where you are, most of the damned time."

It nearly gets him shaken like a misbehaving child, except the Soldier clearly knows if he lays a hand on the Sergeant, he won't stop at shaking. "You think that mattered to Steve when he asked his entire team to lay on the wire for me?" he asks, almost viciously. "You  _ know  _ how he gets. He starts a fight and doesn't know how to stop." 

"Yeah, well, that's assuming he wants to stop," Tony cuts in, incredibly uncomfortable with the flow of the conversation. He can't just stand around listening to this. "Which he doesn't, by the way. The Steve from our world, anyway." He amends with wave of his hand at the Sergeant. "Which. You know. Was before he tried to kill me. Tried lying to my face then, too, but I know what it looks like when someone is a runaway train with no brakes," he says, grimacing, with a gesture at himself. The primary example for everyone, apparently. 

The two of them look at him kind of funny and Tony falls back against the table behind him, looking ceiling ward for help that won't come. "Look, all I'm saying is that it's probably not the healthiest choice to hold yourself responsible for ruining Steve Rogers, or thinking that you need to prop him up like some kind of weird crutch made out of flesh and bone and trauma." 

"Yeah, you know all about healthy coping mechanisms, don't you," the Soldier says flatly. "Which one of us is in therapy again?"

"Ouch," Tony mocks, flattening his hand over his chest, not in the least impressed. "You really know how to hit where it hurts. Speaking of therapists, how do you think the good Doc would feel about everything you've said here? I will tattle, you know.  I have vested interest in you actually recovering, in case you missed or forgot that point." 

Barnes looks at him narrowly for a moment and then cuts the Sergeant a sharp look. The Sergeant looks sullen, still pale from the accusations brought against him, something weird and aware in how he looks between Tony and the Soldier. 

The awareness morphs into a sudden startled realization, and he barks out a laugh, ugly and defeated. "God, you  _ do _ know how to pick 'em," Sergeant Barnes says, and rubs his face with both hands. He refuses to look at the Soldier but meets Tony's eyes, and for once they're actually on the same page, wan and exhausted. "Look," he says, "I don't know what happened in your world, but it's clear I hold myself responsible, so for what it's worth, I'm sorry, too." 

"Appologies are worth jackshit," Tony says flatly, pauses, and forces himself to unbend just a bit. "Sympathies are - appreciated." 

"Don't hurt yourself," the Soldier says, like he knows that felt like pulling teeth, and Tony grimaces at him. The Sergeant scrubs his hand over the back of his head, eyeballing the Soldier like he's never seen him before. 

"I am doing my best here," Tony says, determined not to be offended. 

"Probably would be doing better if we could have talked this out before," Barnes points out dryly, "but getting you to stand still long enough to say more than two words has proved impossible." The Sergeant huffs, mouth twisting wryly. 

"Yeah, no, I don't - no. I'm not homework your therapist assigns you," he objects, even though Barnes isn't wrong. And Tony  _ has _ gone out of his way to make it impossible for Barnes to say more than two words - usually 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' - to him. Of course Barnes would take advantage of the fact that the current situation made it impossible to ignore him. 

"Pretty sure no one put that thought in my head," the Sergeant interrupts. The look he gives Tony is indirect and sideways, like he's suddenly uncomfortable with staring at him full on after everything, mouth twisted wryly. "Not really the kinda guy that leaves things unsaid." Then he kind of squirms uncomfortably, and gestures. "I'd better go check on Steve," he says. 

"You're not actually his keeper," Tony calls after him automatically, then squints at the lab door as it shuts before turning an interrogative look on the Soldier. Barnes shrugs and avoids his eyes, but Tony can tell he's only pretending that he has no clue about what the Sergeant is thinking. 

"That got a bit out of hand," he says. 

"You  _ think? _ " Tony has so many more things to think about that he would really rather not that it won't be fun in his head for quite a while. Barnes' obvious role in everything aside, Tony had never once seriously considered that he might hold himself so completely responsible. It's ludicrous. Lunacy. 

Tony also knows that feelings like that rarely bend to rationality and logic. 

"By the way," he says, because maybe Barnes has a point, "the arm should have been indication enough, but since your skull is so thick - it'd have to be, I guess, given seventy years of brainwashing couldn't get through it - I actually don't-" Tony pauses, trying to figure out how to put it in words. He doesn't hate Barnes. Did, for one hot instant, in the immediate wake of finding out until he'd been forcibly reminded that things can always get worse. Doesn't blame Barnes? But he does, emotionally, if for Rogers and not for the murder of his parents anymore. 

He breathes in and settles on, "I know good when I see it, Bucky. And you're kind of amazing." 

Barnes looks away, clenching his fist. It flexes with a purr - familiar, loved - and calibrates. "Don't know if I deserve that," he says, which is even more familiar than it should be. 

"Yeah, well, that's not for you to decide for me," Tony says flatly, giving himself a shake. He wants to sleep for a week. "Here's another piece of wisdom from the mouth of Miss Pepper Potts: you don't have to feel like you deserve it, you just have to accept that that's how I see it. I never felt like I deserved it either, but if I couldn't change anyone else's mind about me, good luck changing  _ my _ mind about you. Seriously. Now. I'm going to get out of here before Howard gets back and gets sulky about missing out." 

"Right," he says. 

If Tony weren't so familiar with what exhaustion feels like - real exhaustion, the kind that comes from both body and soul, where you're left unable to respond to anything anymore, no matter how dire it might be - he might call  _ this _ it. He feels strange - not hollow, but calm. Not exactly peaceful, but - settled. Not exactly good, but  _ better. _

Maybe he should have let Barnes say his piece months ago - but most likely, Tony had been holding onto his anger, and his hurt. Resolving it would have felt like giving up - like surrender. And Howard had raised him to admire and emulate Steve Rogers and his stubbornness, his determination, his unwavering spirit. 

Giving up had never been an option. 

But Tony has always, always been flexible when the situation calls for it. His skin is titanium and gold, but inside he's full of wires and electric impulses. He can bend without breaking if the other option is simply shattering. 

For once, bending doesn't feel that bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tony:** Steve Rogers :\ :\ :\  
>  **Sergeant:** heY FUCK YOU, STARK  
>  **Soldier:** im tryin'  
>  **Tony:** what  
>  **Sergeant:** what  
>  **Soldier:** you heard me


	6. bad wolf don't bite no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A letter? No," Tony says, as SHIELD preferred stabbing people in the neck and incredibly insulting dossiers. Although naturally SHIELD hasn't even been established yet. What the fuck. Dad always was a secret keeping asshole, Tony can't even be surprised or insulted by this. "Nothing like that. So I was killed in this world?" 
> 
> \--
> 
> more backstory, some misunderstandings, and a lot of talking. tony opens up a bit by way of having a nervous breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited wording a bit as of 01.02.18, expect further small edits regarding phrasing in the days to come.

* * *

 

It _should_ come as no surprise after that incident that Barnes decides against playing Red Room with Beta Version and Captain Jackass. For the next few days, he barely even leaves Tony's side, which is. Something. Tony's already figured out that Barnes is a bit clingy and that has nothing to do with whatever brainwashing persists - might never desist - after spending seventy years being used as a tool, reliant on others to tell him when and where and how to do things. Watching the young Sergeant Barnes is enough to disprove any Winter Soldier related theories. He might have had some of his own programming in place, but Tony is pretty sure it's just Barnes nature to consistently pick someone out of the readily available people at hand and shadow them constantly. The Soldier had done similar things back home with Natasha and Wilson, and he and Wilson don't even really get along.

The chances are good that Rhodey would call that an unhealthy coping mechanism, but Rhodey was also the one that had to suffer through post-MIT Tony, and post-Post-MIT Tony  _might_ be inclined to agree that his predecessor had been a  _bit_ much. Circumstances being what they were, it's not exactly Tony's fault that by the time MIT had nothing more to offer them, he had attached all life and meaning in the world to Rhodey, and didn't adjust all that great to the idea of going off to be a CEO while Rhodey left to pursue his career in the Air Force. 

Pepper might also have a thing or hundred to say about the way that Tony could get about these things.

So Tony _understands_ it, but that isn't to say that Tony is _happy_ with being Barnes' new security blanket. He honestly should be getting incredibly claustrophobic about being shadowed by nearly six feet of learning murder machine, but that never quite happens outside the weird moments of sharp awareness of just how absurd the entire situation is - which to be fair, also happens when Barnes isn't there and it's just Howard and Tony, too.  

The one person that doesn't get the message that Bucky Barnes isn't coming out to play is of course Captain America. A few days after he puts the shield into Barnes' arm, he comes over during lunch hour with his own murdery shadow in tow. Tony casually drops his left hand below the table and wraps it around his knee as a preventative measure.

"Fellas," the Captain says, which is both awful and endearing and utterly fake. He looks at Tony first and says, "I hope I didn't break the arm too badly?"

"Well, it was a bit of a pain in the ass," Tony says blandly, a bit bemused by the way Sergeant Barnes looks vaguely pained behind Rogers' shoulder. "It is a surprisingly delicate piece of equipment despite its capabilities." It tested well enough and could certainly punch through a lot of things that shouldn't be punched through. Didn't mean Barnes _should_ punch through them. He's cracked his ribs doing it before, simply because of how it attached to him.

Rogers shuffles and gives an 'aw shucks' look that Tony trusts as much as he does Barnes' 'butter wouldn't melt' mouth. Barnes' mouth could probably thaw Antarctica if he got it in his head to try.

"I wasn't sure how else to end that," Rogers explains to him.

"Yeah, no, I got that much," Tony says dryly, glancing at the Soldier. Barnes is Sir Not Joining This Conversation, focusing instead on finishing his meal. He's looking a little leaner than before, Tony suddenly realizes - honestly, the rations are leaving even Tony hungry most of the time. He hates to think about how Barnes is dealing with this, or Rogers for that matter. But Rogers is probably used to going hungry, whereas Barnes has a tendency to eat himself sick sometimes. Which is kind of objectively awful, and subjectively awful, and just makes Tony about seven kinds of sad.

Rogers shuffles again. "I'll be more mindful of that from now on," he promises, which isn't really what Tony was aiming for. Rogers turns his attention on the Soldier, looking bright and hopeful in a way that Tony thinks is probably at least half fake. "You ready to go another few rounds, Bucky?" He smirks. "I'll go easy on you this time."

That was probably the last thing Barnes actually wants given what he was shouting that day, but he doesn't look up when he flatly says, "no."

It comes as a surprise to Rogers. "No?" he echoes, and inexplicably looks at Tony. "Well - why not? There's no one here at the base that can give me a work out like that. For you either." He smiles at that, thin and a little bitter.

"It's not good for me to do that," Barnes says flatly, glancing up at Rogers. He looks wary and tired the way he always did back at the compound. Come to think of it - the reason this is all so familiar is because he'd look just like this when he was avoiding Rogers back then, too. Not that Tony had known what he was looking at for a long time - Barnes is good at subterfuge, and Rogers seems keen to when he's being avoided and is equally good at pretending it doesn't gut him right up until Barnes finally comes back around like a stray tom cat and Rogers stops looking like Sisyphus pushing a stubborn boulder up a hill.

He hasn't changed all that much, because Rogers starts to get that strained look around the corners of his eyes. "The men were hoping to get some of it on film," he says, nodding his head back.

Tony swivels, alarmed. With everything else he's been worried about, it hadn't yet occurred to him to think about them being _filmed_ \- despite the fact that it was films reels in the first place that showed in the museums, in the attic of the old house. On some level, Tony guesses he either expected his father or a stranger to be the one doing the filming, or maybe one of Howard's assistants, or at least thought he'd have some kind of warning before the camera came out. Turns out he had been wrong about that, but at least luck hasn't completely abandoned them. No one is actually filming yet. Film is probably expensive, he reasons.

" _No,_ " the Soldier says, "No - no documentation. No filming."

Tony accidentally makes eye contact with Sergeant Barnes. It only lasts for a split second as they're both turning to look at the Soldier, but that takes a backseat to the Soldier. In the instant it'd taken for Tony to turn away, he's gone from exhausted to on edge; pale and hunted and just one muscle twitch from violence. A normal person would be vibrating with it. With Barnes, it just looks like he's reached absolute entropic heat-death levels of stillness, pale eyes fixed on some middle distance as if all three of them are equally threats.

"Sorry," blurts out of Tony's mouth, his gaze not even resting on the Soldier for longer than a second. He leans back and aims his politest _you can't afford my time_ smile up at the Captain. "It might be a different world and all, but our images are still protected and copyrighted property."

He's turning away again, intending to usher the Soldier out of the mess hall before something really truly awful occurs, but Rogers says, sharp and forceful: "I don't know what that means."

Tony collapses back into his chair in a violently loose sprawl, tipping back to favor Rogers with his least impressed look. There it is - that 'big dumb blond lunk' act, eyes big and guileless. He recognizes, now, that it's precisely the same look Barnes had used to coax Howard out the door days ago.

They're like an ouroboros, Tony thinks with something like horrified fascination - twisting around and devouring each other's tails, a tight little knot of awful mutual consumption. It's like autocannibalism, only worse.

It makes Tony supremely uncomfortable. "Yeah, save yourself the trouble and put that face away," he says, collecting himself out of the sprawl he'd been inviting rebuke with, as if this Rogers was the one that had ever been the leader of the Avengers. "I have actually met you, so it doesn't work on me. One, you're not actually dumb, and two, you don't like me nearly enough to admit it when you _really_ don't understand something."

The words come out cloying - sicky in his mouth, but vile; the sweetness having gone to rot. Rogers stares at him piercingly for a tense moment, and then Sergeant Barnes ruins it entirely when his best impression of Rogers' shadow abruptly cracks.

It's nothing as vulgar as a snigger, barely loud enough to be called a snort, but the Sergeant is transparent in ducking his head and cutting Rogers a knowing look. Rogers shifts to level a stare at his Bucky that should probably give nothing away, but practically radiates betrayal over being undermined all the same.

"Well," the Sergeant says, not even defending himself, "he's got you there." He, frankly, looks pleased as punch.

Tony is almost overwhelmed by the bizarre sense of disorientation that sweeps over him - he's thought about this whole thing as a funhouse mirror before, but now the weird warping his giving him a piercing headache. He turns from them and nearly startles when he discovers Barnes at the end of the table - if he'd thought about it at all, he'd have assumed that the Soldier would have made it with the ghost act the moment Tony had Rogers distracted.

Instead, Barnes lingers, clearly waiting on Tony, watching Rogers and the Sergeant and only _mostly_ looking hunted - he's defrosted a bit, and probably won't go immediately _through_ anyone standing in his way.

It isn't really being caught between a rock and a hard place, but Tony waffles for a split second anyway, glancing back at Thing One and Thing Two for a split second. The Sergeant chooses that moment to play up his mollifying of the Captain, so Tony surrenders to the idea of going with the hard place and turns back to Soldier. He's rewarded with a close follow as they beat a hasty retreat from the mess hall.

"You know," Tony says, prickly, stepping sideways so he can satisfy his need to shout at the Soldier to his face, "this whole-" he waves at the minimal space between them, just enough to keep either of them from tripping, " _thing_ you have going on here is why Team Blast from the Past are nervous, you realize."

The barb serves its purpose in annoying Barnes, who gives Tony an unimpressed and generally unmoved look. Tony kind of wants to snap that he's _really_ not Steve Rogers and Barnes can't treat him like he is, but he knows it really has nothing to do with the Captain - or it does. Captain Rogers is the one stressing Barnes out enough that he _needs_ a security blanket in the first place. It's just unfortunate that it only aggravates the situation. Still better than the alternative, though, which is for Barnes to fuck off somewhere that _no one_ will find him.

"What's this all about, anyway?" Tony says, coming to a stop."If it's just Rogers, Sarge has got to be willing to step in and make him stop."

Something dark flashes across Barnes face. "Don't call him that," he says, then grimaces into his palm with obvious regret.

That's interesting, but Tony just arches his brow. "If this is about army etiquette, I already know and I don't care."

"No," he says, his mouth a flat unhappy line. He's given up on being clean shaven, favoring the wild hobo look he gets when he's away from his therapist too long, which - yeah. Barnes rubs his face and neck and avoids looking directly at Tony as he says, "forget it."

Tony doesn't, because in that split second, he remembers taunting Barnes about his incredibly jealous past self, and - and Tony kind of wishes he hadn't said anything to begin with. _That's_ a rabbit hole that is completely unnecessary to go down, and he hates that he even glimpsed down it.

"Consider it forgotten," he says. "Instead, why don't you tell me what trick it takes to keep Rogers from lying to my face? Because _that face_ pissed me off enough as it is before I realized that he was doing his best Bucky Barnes impression, and now it's pissing me off but also creeping me out."

"No, really?" Barnes says, because he's the worst and lives to be a massive pain in the ass and ruin Tony's life in various ways. If Tony felt safe doing so, he'd say that the Sergeant is his new favorite, because at least _he_ has helped Tony out a couple of times by now. He can't say that. It's not true in the first place, and secondly, it's definitely not safe to say something like that. Barnes might call his bluff or feel like Tony's inviting him to discuss this weird fixation he's developing. Developing? Tony _has_ spent the last couple of months dodging Barnes' attempts to talk to him. Whatever it should be called, it might have long since developed.

Good job on Barnes for hiding it from him if that was true; Tony might have been significantly less willing to hurl himself through strange wormholes if he knew this is the kind of trouble that would result from it.

"Don't get me wrong," Tony says. "It's a great impression. Masterful facsimile. I bet it works on most people. I bet they eat it up with a spoon given Rogers' face and whole-" he gestures, indicating the ridiculous width of Captain America's shoulders. If Tony hadn't walked into their meeting with a chip on his shoulder, _he_ would have eaten it up with a spoon, probably. If Rogers had been just a little less sharp. If Rogers had approached their daily interactions with the same kind of poise and attitude he had on the field. Not liking Tony Stark has no bearing on whether or not _Tony_ likes people, after all.

Plenty of good, perfectly rational people don't like Tony Stark. Not liking Tony Stark is not an indication of a flawed personality. Tony would argue to the contrary, actually, except for the fact that neither Pepper nor Rhodey are entirely patient with that line of thought so Tony's learned when to keep his mouth shut.

Actually, Barnes is making a pretty compelling argument in favor of Tony's point of view on the subject. Rogers is the only person who would argue that Barnes doesn't have a flawed personality, but look: Tony's met the old Barnes and they're both really fucking weird, it's just that most people don't notice thanks to Barnes' face and all the flashy charm and sass.

"Not everyone falls for a pair of wide shoulders," Barnes says, apparently deeply unimpressed with Tony's perfectly sound logic.

Tony stares at him askance. "Uh-huh," he says, not fooled for one second. "Have you had your libido checked lately?" Even Tony, who has never once had a libido that worked as expected, knows about Rogers' waist-to-shoulders ratio. It takes as long as the words to leave his mouth for Tony to realize just how little he's actually interested in hearing about the way Rogers gets Barnes' engine going. "You know what, I wouldn't worry about it, I'm sure it's fine, in perfect working order, even," he says. He pats Barnes' chest since it's conveniently within reach and turns away.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Barnes grumps at his back under his breath, which - no. No, Tony does not, but it wouldn't be the first time Tony has signaled to the contrary unintentionally. Louder, meaning to be heard this time, he adds: "You can't really blame them for being edgy. We usually weren't kept off the battleground this long."

"You're right. I should blame you for destroying so many of the bases that were next in line to be discovered for raiding," he says brightly. "Great job, killer. You're doing amazing."

"Yeah, you're my favorite, too," Barnes says, dry as a bone.

"It doesn't count as sarcasm if it's true, William Sugar."

Barnes huffs. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Stark."

"I'm always ahead of everyone," he says, only half joking. "Anyway, I am your passage out of this horrible circus of funhouse mirrors, I am naturally your favorite."

"Sure," Barnes says, easy, casual, his voice entirely too knowing. "No worries, though - I'm sure I can figure out new reasons after we get home."

 _He doesn't even have the decency to make it a sexual innuendo._ Tony is frankly outraged by this lapse in acceptable banter conventions. Barnes is not allowed to sound like he's perfectly confident there are reasons to like Tony outside of what Tony can do for him - for his own selfish reasons, even, because 'save Bucky Barnes' hadn't really been the mission directive so much as 'prevent Steve Rogers from Doing Something Drastic.' He's equally unnerved by it _and_ the strange something that shivers and shakes up his spine and makes his scalp prickle. It's not unpleasant, other than the panicky way it makes his stomach twist. Or the implications make it twist, anyway.

"Yeah, okay, that's not creepy at all," he says, picking up the pace. For what good it would do with Barnes.

And yet, by the time that Tony makes it to the lab doorway, Barnes has lagged far enough behind that Tony has the opportunity to turn and eyeball his murderous shadow. He's shaken off the weird uneasy feeling of earlier, and watching Barnes skulk up to the doorway warily, like something wild clinging to the far edges of firelight, nothing but the glimmer of eyes to betray it - kind of makes the long network of nerves in his arm ache.

"It's not my idea of a great time, either," Tony says as Barnes come to a stop a wary meter and half away, eyeballing the door, "but you can't keep running off with your tail behind your legs."

Barnes glances at him reproachfully, grimacing. "Dunno that there's a point to that," he says. He acts like the makeshift lab is a hell-space. Barnes will shadow him everywhere except where Howard is, and Tony needs Howard to help him build their path back home which makes spending time with him nonnegotiable. Not that Tony wants to negotiate in favor of Barnes' comfort, what the fuck. He doesn't want Barnes anywhere near Howard. And yet.

And yet the way that Barnes reacts makes Tony's hands itch with the need to _do something._

Tony rubs his hand roughly over his face, a bit too hard. Scratches nails gone untidy through the thickening stubble on his jaw. He feels like he's swallowed a hot coal or star. "Bit unfair, don't you think," he says flatly. "Granted, _I_ didn't kill him, or Rogers for that matter, but this whole unfun ride has been a little one-sided."

It's not like what happened in the hall when Rogers brought up the films, but Barnes is going slowly, carefully still, pale and wide eyed. He doesn't look at Tony. "I can't. Part of me is still like that," he says, soft, rote and toneless. "It's still in there. Still feels it. Remembers the-" He breaks off, and it's clear after a moment that he's going to continue avoiding anything to do with Howard.

"Right, well," Tony says, and doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved. It's not like he doesn't know the programming is still there, to a certain extent, that the orders given to the Soldier might reassert themselves at any time. "Would you look at that? You've successfully delivered me to my doom. Keep this up and I'll have to petition Pep to hire you on as my brand new PA."

"God, no," Barnes says, but the tension brewing in him unravels all at once. There's something too raw and too grateful around the edges of his eyes that he tries to hide behind the curtain of his loose hair, which is fine because Tony isn't comfortable seeing any of that at this moment. "You have a dozen interns at that fancy building who'd leap at it, leave me out of that."

"Yeah, that's not really my type," Tony says dryly. "Consider allaying Thing One and Thing Two's fears a little bit, would you? Sarge might have gotten the message that I'm not actually the one that did bad things to you, but Rogers' not getting with the program."

Looking kind of shifty - nervous, maybe, if nervous was slightly violent - Barnes says, "I wasn't just being contrary. I can't - no fighting. Not with the arm like this."

And whose fault was that, anyway? But Tony squints at him, taking a fresh read, and although he certainly hadn't expected Barnes to be bluffing about it, he confirms that Barnes definitely won't handle another sparring round with Old Glory well at all. He continues to impress with how well he's handling all of everything, but this is one point at which one careless jostle will shatter him all over again.

"What about the rifles?" Tony asks. "They've gotta keep the men's skills sharp somehow. The ones you found are being kept with the others - but of course you know that." He feels a bit like an idiot, rolling his eyes at his own condescension. "Of course you already know that. I don't know why I told you that."

He wouldn't be the Winter Soldier if he didn't know that, and as for Tony - well. He'd wanted to know. How the things that were confiscated from them are treated is indicative of how their captivity is being handled, even if the guns were just old, banged up models that Barnes scavenged when he landed in this era.

If they allow Barnes to have his guns back, even for target practice, that's indicative, too.

Barnes doesn't call him out on his misstep, eyes sharp and knowing as he considers these same things and weighs it against his unwillingness to arm himself or act with anything even approaching violence. "Yeah, okay, I'll give that a try," he says.

"Don't strain anything. Or break anything. Or anyone," Tony advises. He includes Barnes himself on that, unspoken mostly because he's leery of actually saying that given all of - _everything_ \- and somehow accidentally encouraging Barnes. He has the look of something starved that snapped up the tail end of a hot dog bun that Tony accidentally dropped.

 _Shoo,_ he wants to say; _go home. I know you already have one, don't give me that look._

The look that Barnes eyes him with suggests that he's wise to Tony's thought process, but he says nothing about it. He gives the lab door one more measuring look before going on his way, leaving Tony standing outside it. And well, if Tony wants to shoo Barnes back to his actual home as quickly as possible, he's going to have to open a pathway for that to happen in the first place.

Tony's work is never done. He rubs his hands together roughly, breathes deep, and turns to face the squad.

-0-

Rebuilding the complex, backwards system that sent them to the past in the first place dominates Tony's time for the next several days, though he has it on good authority that the Soldier took to his suggestion and was allowed to rub it in his past self's handsome face that he's the better shot. It doesn't exactly bring the Soldier any joy, but neither of them had really expected it to - and at least it gets Rogers off Tony's case, despite the fact that the Soldier isn't any more keen to spend time with him than before.

Howard takes to the idea of building what might _loosely_ be considered a bank of pathetically primitive servers well. He's entirely too charmed by the entire idea, and doesn't even complain when he's saddled with the soldering job while Tony fusses with trying to get the programming _just so._ It needs to be precise and perfect, and while Tony is normally confident in his abilities to program on the fly - the fact that he has to do it all by hand, that it will be running through a system that is to a server the way a water wheel is to a arc reactor, in a language that isn't even properly a programming language outside of that's technically exactly what it does - it's making him a little stressed.

His math has to be utterly perfect the first time - the system won't survive multiple activations. He can't allow for any margin of error, and he has no AI to run his calculations a thousand times for the one error that will occur to fuck everything up. If he wants them to land precisely and specifically only - _at most_ \- a few minutes after they left, everything needs to be perfect the first time. Otherwise, Tony might punch through the time-space continuum and leave them stranded elsewhere in the timeline, or in yet a different world. Maybe a worse one. Maybe one where the Avengers didn't succeed.

But Tony always does his best work while under pressure - the charred remains of a idea becoming a diamond. He might be able to to land them perfectly to a point before anyone realizes they were gone. It'll save him a red, white, and blue headache.

More realistically, Tony figures there's a margin of error the size of several hours to a few days.

"Do I even want to know why you have the specific movements of astral bodies memorized and worked into equations?" Howard asks with that funny look on his face. A bit like Tony is wasting his time. A bit like Howard suspects that Tony is pulling one over him and deeply resents that he doesn't instantly grasp exactly why Tony is doing something. It's been an expression frequently on display this last week.

Working with Erskine must have been something like working with Bruce, Tony thinks. The pleasure of working with someone brilliant who can keep up, but that specializes in a different field, and so isn't actually a threat to the ego. Tony doesn't specialize in exactly the same field as Howard, but thanks to the circumstances, it must be incredibly threatening.

"Call it a hobby," Tony mutters. "One that has saved me a lot of headaches over the years." One that actually had everything to do with alien invasions, but Howard didn't need to know that. On the off chance there weren't _portals_ any longer, and the invaders interrupted the sky itself - Tony wanted to know the exact moment something was in the sky that shouldn't be. He could have had FRIDAY just keep an ear to all the observatories around the world, but why bother with that when he could launch his own satellites and have JOCASTA monitor it for him?

Howard huffs quietly. "Must have some kind of setup," he says, not looking up from his work.

"Yeah," Tony agrees, thinking of what he'd been capable of in the future - the advanced cooling systems. The _micro_ chips. The amount of power required to allow FRIDAY to run wasn't as extensive as JARVIS - she might one day build up to that, but Tony probably wouldn't be alive to see it - but it still required massive rooms and advanced thermal management for the times when she had to kick it up a notch.

To get even a fraction of that would require endless warehouses of equipment of the kind Howard could provide. Even in the name of getting them home quicker, Tony isn't advancing science, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. It would require too much to build up to it - purity of elements, techniques - things Tony could probably puzzle out for himself but didn't feel like rebuilding the wheel. Much easier just to simplify the programming.

Well. For a given value of 'easier.'

"When _did_ you get into astronomy?" Howard asks suddenly. His tone is strangely whimsical.

"Uh - in the last few years," Tony says vaguely, glancing at him. "Why?"

Howard smiles thinly. "I've been trying to pinpoint exactly where our worlds split," he says, looking up to meet Tony's eyes. He hangs his wrist over his knee and gestures with the other hand. "I suppose it could have been any number of things. Clearly you never went overseas and got yourself killed in the summer of '22."

"Clearly," Tony agrees, the first seventeen years of his life having him well trained not to let the _what the fuck_ show on his face. "I never actually went overseas in '22," he adds, because it's true no matter what century they're talking about. "Can't think of why I would."

"Huh," he says, frowning thoughtfully. "It has to be something before then, or otherwise you'd have gone. You never received a letter? About helping to establish a Worldwide Peacekeeping organization?"

"A letter? No," Tony says, as SHIELD preferred stabbing people in the neck and incredibly insulting dossiers. Although naturally SHIELD hasn't even been established yet. What the _fuck._ Dad always was a secret keeping asshole, Tony can't even be surprised or insulted by this. "Nothing like that. So I was killed in this world?"

"It was quite the shock for me," Howard admits. "Of course, I was only five at the time and you _were_ my favorite uncle. _You_ always believed I could make something of myself. More than a fruit salesman, anyway." Abruptly, he shakes off the nostalgic edge to his face and gives Tony a wry kind of look, almost wistful. "At least in one world, I got to learn something real and tangible from you."

Envy and jealousy, carefully hidden under acceptance and admiration, Tony thinks. He's seen Howard wear that look in his lab before. When he was older, he realized it was always when Howard was looking into other people's research. Sometimes things _Tony_ had come up with.

Apparently Howard would have also used that look on his uncle - the one that was Tony's namesake. Tony had more or less forgotten about his mom telling him about it, even though learning about it was what had driven him to demand being called 'Tony' in the first place. Being mistaken for his great uncle Anthony _now_ is the height of surreality. Tony has a sudden existential unease about the situation. It's late to be worried about changing the timeline, but the idea that he might end up being named after _himself_ is -

Howard continues, apparently taking little note of Tony's nonresponse. "You still found your way into being involved in Project Rebirth, clearly."

It startles Tony loose of his apprehension. "Only through you," he says, managing to make it sound casual and offhand. It's also the truth, which is a bonus. "It was always more your project than it was mine. Mostly I just wrangle super soldiers." He grimaces. In some ways more than others. Rogers had never been one to allow himself to be wrangled, actually - at least not by Tony. Not much by Natasha, either, although she tried. Tries. Barnes probably wouldn't tolerate it either if he weren't so crazy - didn't usually, to be honest. When Barnes feels too much like he's being managed, he has a tendency to freak right the fuck out, which really begs the question as to why he's being so tolerant of Control Freak Tony Stark.

"And design them new arms," Howard points out with that awful quirk to his mouth.

"And that."

"It _is_ a marvel," he says admiringly, returning to his work. It's hard to tell if that tone is on purpose or not - the buttery, twisting tone, too sweet to be properly called a wheedle. Rueful, he says: "what advances we must have made together, _working_ together!"

God, he sounds like Obadiah Stane - that extra little emphasis, like the best line out of all the propaganda. Obie had to have learned it from somewhere, Tony thinks. So much of his other mannerisms have only too clearly been reproduced from aspects of Howard that Tony had never strictly been privy to as a kid.

"Well, it wasn't a one man show," he admits lightly, ignoring the cold dampness in his palms, the way his damaged arm threatens a wobble. He squints down at the equations in front of him. "I probably could have written something up myself, but there were other experts on staff who had already put some work into it. And Bucky - James - _Barnes_ preferred my hardware to theirs, so that was that."

"It's good work. Just as good - well! _Better_ than the real thing, actually."

Tony tightens his hand into a fist to steady it. "It's really not," he says, and doesn't manage to strangle all of the warning out of his voice. A little tight and mean. "In the first place, maintenance is a bitch. It's worse when your stupid Soldier gets squirrely and keeps damaging it worse and worse. Rogers is on my shitlist right now for purposefully targeting the panels that were already damaged, by the way."

Howard chuckles. "The good Captain has _been_ on your 'shitlist,' you mean," Howard says with amusement. "He's an ornery little bastard, isn't he?"

That really pushes the edges of Tony's acting abilities, but he doesn't actually let his eyes bug out of his head. "Uh, yeah," he agrees cautiously, watching Howard narrowly out of the corner of his eyes. "A little surprised to hear that from you. My - uh, the Howard, you know, from my world - actually likes him quite a lot."

"Or is a better liar than you give him credit for," Howard says, dry and knowing. "Erskine was the one that chose him, it's not like I had any say in the matter. He understood his formula best. I trusted that he'd choose a good participant for the trials. It appears he chose well, given that Steve has yet to exhibit any of the degenerative effects, but - well. Erskine is dead, so the entire project is defunct. I managed to transfer what was left of it to my department, but." Howard shrugs. "Erskine was paranoid. He didn't exactly leave any notes."

Then, as if it only just occurred to him, Howard looks at Tony appraisingly. "Any chance you had an opportunity to speak to the old man? One Grandpa to another?" He smirks. It's meant to be charming.

"No," Tony says casually, shrugging. "Enhancing people has never really been my area. Never even met Erskine, really."

"A pity," Howard says, deflating. "Given Barnes' enhanced state, I'd hoped - well. I guess that doesn't matter."

Tony doesn't open his mouth and say that Barnes already has the Serum - both of them. The fact that the beta version is more lean and vicious than a half starved alley dog suggests it hasn't been activated yet, and the last thing that Tony wants is Howard to trap the Sergeant in another awful metal case, even if it's just to hit him with Vita-Rays. Even if the Sergeant wouldn't understand the significance of a metal tomb.

Tony has an intense and intensely bizarre need to see the Soldier back in the Compound with his salt-washed cotton sweats and real wool socks. It's pretty transparent as Tony's desires tend to go. He is a simple, simple man with simple wants. If he likes people, he wants to see them safe and comfortable.

He'd liked the Avengers, once.

"Still," Howard says, unknowingly jarring Tony out of thoughts that would have only gotten darker, "there is that arm. I don't need to tell you how many of our boys get invalidated back home."

"Figure out the Serum before you worry about the arm, Howard," Tony says, his voice crackling and twisted like the wet snap of living bones wrapped in flesh. "No baseline human could survive getting that thing installed into their body. _Maybe_ in a hundred years it could happen, with medical advances to help with the integration and rejection, not to mention the awful shock of suddenly having a robot arm - or leg, for that matter."

Tony personally would never subject someone to installing something like Barnes' arm. There were better options. Barnes had simply assimilated the arm as part of his body - no longer a replacement, but a limb he'd had longer than the original flesh one - so they'd worked with it. What worked for Barnes would likely never work for anyone else.

"I guess that would be quite shocking," Howard says with a funny quirk to his mouth. Then: "But maybe if we could put them out for the duration of the surgery - it causes amnesia you know-" He pauses. "Now, there's a thought," he murmurs, a bright note to his tone. That 'edge of an idea' tone. "If we could just erase parts that would shock them - Hell, if we could just get rid of the parts that keep them off the field, send them back, stronger, _better_ \- well, that'd be a Hell of an accomplishment, Gramps."

Tony carefully didn't look down to where his hand is fisted in the leg of his pants, straining and tight. His right, the better behaved one, continues to worry at the pencil and paper for a bit longer. The timing is incredibly precise. It's like knowing how to swim. He doesn't count heartbeats or breaths or seconds, just pauses over the tight fist on his knee, and then when it's the right time, stands. "Wish they could get some more hands around here," he says, playing at irritation. "I'm going to fill the pitcher, I'll be back."

"See if you can find something a little stronger," Howard suggests easily. "And I don't mean coffee."

"Right," Tony says. Like he's ever going to bring Howard _alcohol._ Christ. He ditches the pitcher outside the door.

-0-

A few days later, Tony returns to his quarters to find Barnes waiting up for him, which is both new and alarming. Reluctant to spook him just either case, Tony pretends that it's business as usual, stripping off the makeshift tool harness, which is swiftly followed by his jacket and boots. A few days after returning with the Soldier, someone had replaced the rickety cot with one of reinforced metal. There hasn't been another incident of Barnes sleeping on his arm, for which Tony is endlessly thankful, because there are some things he shouldn't have to cope with.

Usually he just wakes up to the Soldier creeping in the corner. Like he is right now. Tony sincerely hopes that Barnes is making use of the cot during the daytime, because micronaps and whatever other awful thing the Soldier was trained to deal with on longer missions won't cut it and shouldn't have to, honestly.

"When are you gonna do something about all of that?" Barnes asks him, apropos of nothing. He's gesturing around his jaw, which while stubbled, isn't as severe as the mess that's coming in on Tony's face. "It's creeping me out."

"Get used to being creeped," Tony replies flatly. "I think I'm going to keep it so long as we're - where we are, with Fake Tony confusing matters. Wait - does Fake Tony's appearance change?" He eyes Barnes narrowly, trying to decide if he's even going to trust whatever answer that the Soldier gives him, considering he's been hiding Fake Tony for years now.

The _'cut your bullshit'_ look that Barnes gives him is so Pepper and Rhodey it's totally unfair, and also it makes Tony's chest hurt. Barnes shifts on the chair and looks at him cockeyed. "Fake Tony normally dresses in three piece bespoke suits that cost more than your yearly expenses on coffee," he says flatly.

Tony maintains his narrow, suspicious expression. "I'm not sure if you're underestimating the cost of my suits or my coffee more," he says. Also the Tony in Barnes' head shouldn't be in suits, not if he showed up after Siberia. Barnes' hallucinations don't change their appearance - but they were also usually dead. The only other not-dead hallucination he has - that he's admitted to, anyway - is Brooklyn Steve, who has been haunting his ass since DC, and hadn't that broken Cap's heart when he'd heard about it.

The Soldier blinks at him implacably. He bears an eerie resemblance to Lions and Tigers, oh my. "Do you not know how to use a straight razor?" he inquires with faked earnesty.

It's too absurd of a taunt to really provoke a serious response, and besides, the fact that this is the Winter Soldier is just… weird. "Of course I know how to use a straight razor," Tony says, verging on too sharply, and immediately regrets it; Barnes isn't actually being an asshole, isn't even trying, it's just Tony being on edge. He doesn't want to fight, or ruin their truce or cooperation. "My Dad taught me," he elaborates, and maybe that's the tone he uses when suckering the press by talking about Howard Stark, but he's trying. "I never saw the point. He liked the idea of it but always was in a hurry and never had time for it. Kept a battery powered one in the car. And the lab." He turns his back, fiddling with the lamp fixture above the bed. "Before you start fussing about the inferior quality of the razors and soap on loan here, I learned how to use a scrap of metal and the driest bar soap you can find in a dank, cold cave in the middle of the desert."

"Maybe you'd feel more like yourself if you shaved," he suggests casually. "Tony, these last few days, you've gotten a look in your eye that I don't like. It's makin' everyone nervous."

" _Oh,_ well, if _everyone's_ getting nervous," Tony says, too lightly, and immediately pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to sit down on the cot. Barnes, kindly, says nothing. "You realize," Tony says, not lowering his hand, eyes screwed shut, "That you're pulling the Sergeant's act toward the Captain on me."

"Didn't think of it like that, but sure," he says. "Look, turnabout's fair play, Tony. You've been spending all this time trying to make sure I don't -"

Scrubbing his fingers over his scalp, Tony watches him gesture expressively. There's a sharpness to it, a bitterness in his face, around his clenched jaw and the tightness around his eyes.

"Kill everyone," Barnes settles on at last, and then takes a moment to himself before locking gazes with him. "I noticed that. I couldn't exactly miss it." Abruptly discomfited, he looks away and shifts, squirming like he'd rather be having any other conversation than this one.

Tony, frankly agrees. He's too nervous, too sharp for anything involving honesty and feelings right now - if Barnes even considers showing his metaphorical soft spot, Tony's going to jab something sharp and electrified into it, and then things will get ugly and _surprisingly,_ Tony doesn't want that. Somewhere along the line, stopping the Soldier from triggering has turned into wanting to keep him safe, even from Tony himself.

"Alright," he says, "alright, _I get it._ No need for all of that."

"I don't think you do," Barnes disagrees, the stubborn asshole. His arm recalibrates, the noise oddly loud in the otherwise quiet room, only disrupted by the distant sound of people talking and moving around the base. He stares at his open palms, metal to the left and calloused skin to the right. "I gotta keep you in one piece right now, because you're the only thing keepin' _me_ in one piece. So if anything has you looking like something caught in a trap, seconds away from chewing its own leg off to escape, I need to - I need to do something about that."

Right. Well that's. That's reasonable, Tony thinks. Certainly more rational than some of the other stuff that Barnes has gotten up to and implied in Tony's general direction. He can't argue with logic like that.

"It's nothing," he says, and when Barnes looks up to level an unimpressed look at him, Tony amends, "it's nothing you can do anything about. When your brain is as overactive as mine, you tend to think things out. Think things through. You - you test and consider things that you'd never actually do. Horrible things. Awful - horrible things." That's all it is. Tony can't hold that against Howard after some of the things he's dreamed up. Some of the weapons he'd designed, then thought of the military actually putting them to use, and then gotten blacked out drunk and sealed the records for _never ever ever never again._

The Soldier doesn't look entirely happy with that, which he should be, because nothing is actually _wrong,_ but -

"It's just a bit longer, Bu - is it that, today? Who are you, today?" Tony squints at him suspiciously. He can't accurately guess who the Soldier thinks he is at the moment - it's a bit of Bucky, in the constant weariness around his eyes, but Bucky would never broach such a careful discussion of - feelings, or co-dependency, or whatever just happened. Bucky is more avoidant than Tony on his worst days. Bucky is the one that fucks right off and doesn't turn up for days at a time.

"You don't have to keep asking me that," Barnes says dryly. "Just call me Bucky."

"Yeah, okay, I could," Tony agrees, not able to pinpoint what it is about how that's said rings just slightly off. "But I like being precise. It's a personality flaw, really. So I think, for the sake of being correct, and in the name precision, I'll keep asking you that. It's nothing personal." He gestures. "So. Bucky?"

The Soldier stares at him long enough that Tony starts to think that he's somehow misjudged, that Barnes would prefer to keep his incredibly weak grasp on reality on the downlow, a thing that remains unacknowledged. Then he says, slowly, "James. Actually."

Tony feels a bit like he's just been handed a beaker full of a volatile chemical reaction. "Okay," he says. "Great. Like I was saying, it's just for a while longer. Howard has been having difficulty locating one of the components for the time-punching machine, but as soon as we have that, the next day we'll be gone. The day after at most."

"Won't do us much good if you snap before then," Barnes points out reasonably.

Which. Also true. The Soldier is looking skittish himself, honestly. Maybe he'd been hoping for an enemy in particular to disembowel. Unfortunately for him - fortunately for everyone else - there's no enemy around for him to fight other than the usual demons of the past. He must be feeling stir crazy, which isn't great. Might be the least great thing around. Might weaken whatever defense he has against the programming. Tony isn't particularly thrilled with the idea that Barnes is going to slip and forget this isn't a memory or nightmare and try to complete his mission on Rogers or Howard or both.

"I'm not going to _snap,_ " he scoffs, rolling his eyes; a reaction carefully contained and alchemized into disbelief. "Despite whatever it might have looked like, this is actually not the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"Yeah, I know," Barnes says, "I've seen you go through worse. I was there, remember?"

" _Oh,_ alright, are we doing that again?" Tony asks. It comes out too loud with too many sharp edges and too familiar, despite this being entirely the wrong person to be using it on. "Great," he adds, slicing his hand hatefully toward Barnes. "Now you've made me use my 'arguing with Captain Jackass' voice. This is fantastic. I came here to sleep, you know, you weren't even supposed to be here. Not that you can't be here, just - feels uncomfortably like an ambush."

Barnes is decent enough of a person to look guilty and uncomfortable about that. "It was, a bit, but I couldn't exactly ask you about this in the corridor, now could I?" Grimacing, he concedes, "it was a bad plan. I'm just trying to get the shape of the problem you're set on shouldering by yourself."

"Uh - there is not actually a problem, and even if there were, I would actually be capable of handling it myself," he says shortly, then bitchily adds, "you should know, you were there."

"Yeah, and that ended in rainbows and sunshine, didn't it, Ruby Shoes," Barnes says, looking at him.

"Yeah, well, guess what? Surprisingly, none of that was actually an anomaly in my life!" It comes out high and distressed rather than sharp and mean, and Tony lurches to his feet with his jaw clenched because of all times to do this - with all people to do this with - this can't be happening. He has to move around the cot until he's on the other side of it, doing a pitiful three step pace in the narrow space there, rubbing his hands over his face and the back of his neck. He's painfully aware of Barnes watching his pathetic little display.

It feels like Tony might rattle right out of reality itself, and under the general hysteria of his screaming nerves, there's a calm voice theorizing that this must be how Bucky Barnes feels _all the time._ Grasping for something, anything, to keep him grounded, Tony opens his mouth and finds words spilling out. "That is, unsurprisingly, the number one most fucked up thing that's ever happened to me, of course. I always thought _that_ particular honor would go to the time my godfather drugged me and then pulled my heart out of my chest because I didn't want to share the shiny new tech that was keeping me alive, but - well. Always seems to be someone vying to be number one."

He turns, can't quite take looking at Barnes, still sitting in the corner of his room. His hand has automatically gone to his chest ( _he hears the crunch of vibranium alloy through titanium_ ) and he forces it up and settles it, firmly around the back of his neck, and can't tolerate hearing anything from Barnes on the matter.

Barnes can't say anything about any of it if Tony keeps talking.

"Before either of those times, that number one slot went to the time my ribcage was sawed open in a cave without anesthesia to make place for Tony Stark's Heart Mark I, which was slightly more traumatic than the time I fell through space in a dead suit, completely cut off from earth and everything outside it - I have more nightmares about the latter than the former, of course, so they kind of co-occupy third place on the list." Tony shrugs, rolls his eyes - his head, stares narrowly at the ceiling. "Spot number four is currently occupied by the time I built a genocidal robot - actually created one of the biggest threats against the entire world when all I wanted was to save it.

"This list sounds self-absorbed," he acknowledges, "but that's because there's a whole separate list for all the terrible things that happened to the people I care about, of which there are plenty. The time AIM got Pepper and tortured her while I was forced to watch was pretty awful. Narrowly beats when a bit later, she fell past me into an inferno. Obviously, she survived, but _oh man,_ the nightmares from that one are _spectacular_ and reoccuring. And there's what happened to Rhodey, thanks to Captain Jackass making awful, impulsive decisions. JARVIS, of course. No one ever remembers _JARVIS._ Also my fault."

Tony's diatribe comes to a stop not because he has run out of things to say, but because he's run out of the energy to say it. He'd intended on going straight to bed when he'd come here. It wasn't like there was quality alone time to be had in the past - no books to read or beloved projects to work on. He's exhausted enough to survive looking at Barnes and so he does, clasping his hands together and smiling bitterly.

"So," he says, "you see, it might not compare to seventy years of torture and brainwashing by HYDRA, but it's going to take a lot more than _Howard_ to to make me snap."

Barnes arches his brows. "Well, you certainly have a flare for the dramatic," he says, which is probably the only response he could have given without Tony flying into pieces; Tony takes refuge in sweeping his arms wide and smirking like a showboating asshole. Barnes' pale eyes are dark and unreadable in the shadows cast by the single light hung above the cot. "I kind of feel like I should go find Howard and teach him the manners his momma apparently never did."

The showboating crumples in bewilderment. Tony sags where he stands, staring at the Soldier. "Even if you did, it wouldn't stick," he says, and after what Barnes said in the hall outside the lab, Tony surprises himself with the lack of terror he finds at the idea - all exasperation and no condemnation. Even if Barnes would never have chosen to do that - but it doesn't actually worry him at all. _That_ worries him. God. Rhodey had once offered to go fuck up Howard, and Tony had just said he shouldn't assault senior citizens. Unwillingly, Tony adds, "I actually need him to translate this crappy out of date tech for me."

"After, then," Barnes says easily.

Tony jerks his head a bit, squinting at Barnes like he'll make more sense if Tony can forcibly change his own perspective - squeeze him through a microscope lense, or view him through FRIDAY's scans. The irony that Tony is upset because Howard unknowingly mapped out what happened to James Buchanan Barnes - might still happen to him, if nothing is changed, if things haven't already changed enough - and here the Soldier is, offering to rough him up: that's not lost on him. "I can fight my own battles," he says.

"Sure," Barnes agrees, not looking away. "But there isn't anyone else around to have your back in fighting them, except me." His mouth flattens, twists into something no one would call a smile. "And I am a soldier."

"Yeah, okay, no. Don't fight my wars," Tony returns immediately. "No - no fighting. We don't follow the same rules of engagement, James." And the last thing Tony wants is to put Barnes on the battlefield anyway. The Compound is good - preferable. Avengers work is… tolerable. Not the kind of fighting that gets called _battles_ and _wars,_ though. That's. That's not acceptable. Barnes can sit that that out.

Barnes drops his eyes with a grimace, chewing his cheek. "Alright, fine," he says. "I ain't tryina take that away from you. I'm feelin' a bit useless here."

"Please. As if roughing up Howard would actually be that entertaining. I don't think he's ever engaged in 'fisticuffs' in his entire life," Tony says, moving around the cot to take a seat.

The look on Barnes' face suggests that even if it wouldn't take long, he'd enjoy it. Enjoy what part of it? Being violent? Punching Howard? Or defending- well, it's probably punching Howard. Barnes doesn't actually enjoy violence. "I'll take him by the collar and shove him in a locker," Barnes says.

Tony snorts, and finds himself smothering his mouth with his hand. The expression trying to break out on his face feels like betrayal. Getting along with Barnes doesn't mean he has to - what? Laugh at his jokes? Any combination of Barnes and Howard should be appalling, terrifying to him, considering - but a brainwashed assassin is talking about _shoving a grown man in a locker._ It's not funny. Tony got shoved in lockers.

It's a bit funny. Howard's not a small man and wouldn't fit easily.

"You can't say that kind of stuff when we get back," Tony says abruptly, dropping his arms onto his knees. "Here? This? This is okay. This is -" He looks around the cramped room aimlessly. Literally another time. He knows the man he worked with in the lab today is Howard, the man his father once was. He also knows that it'll be different if Bucky Barnes stands in the Avengers Compound and jokes about punching Howard's face in.

The Soldier studies him curiously. "You think you'll still talk to me when you've got other options?" he asks skeptically. When Tony looks at him, he quirks his brow. "Tony, you watch - obviously. I know you've been keeping tabs on me. I don't blame you, I'd do the same. I think. I can't really imagine being in your shoes. In a lot of ways." He grimaces. "I wouldn't have gotten me a pardon. Not room and board and _therapy._ "

"Yeah, that doesn't have anything to do about you," Tony says, and Barnes immediately guesses, pale eyes sharp: "it has to do with punishing yourself, right?" Tony does laugh then, with no humor, with too many teeth.

"I've been paying attention," the Soldier says, somewhere between Bucky and the Asset. "I read people even if I don't want to. It wasn't anything I was trained for, not like Natasha." His posture, still slumped and made small in the chair, tenses and coils. The metal hand fists. The right remains deceptively relaxed. "It's the kind of readin' people a kid does, when his Dad's a drunk and a mean one at that. You learn quick to do and be exactly what they want from you. Doesn't always work, though, does it?" His smile mimics Tony's, looks twice a violent. "The kinds of men and women that would use a weapon like me _like_ to be cruel. It satisfied something in them. It was never about me, and even when I knew that, I still tried. Couldn't help it really."

"Yeah, that's why, too," Tony says, thick and uncomfortable and not looking at him. "It wasn't just about 'punishing' myself."

Barnes, thankfully, doesn't misunderstand that as pity, because it's not. "I know that, too," he says.

"And you know you don't owe me anything?" Barnes doesn't answer that, and Tony says, "James."

He shrugs. Shakes his head. "I've got a lot to make up for."

"Great," Tony says. "I get that. I do, too. But I don't want your obligations or debts."

"But I'm one of your obligations," he says, not arguing but clarifying.

"No," Tony drawls slowly. "I mean, as far as an Avenger goes, yes. I would have come here after any of my teammates." Maybe. Possibly. There's the slightest chance that Tony had kind of panicked over the idea of them losing the Soldier, because Rogers' reaction would have been - acute, no doubt. "Other than that, I specifically have an obligation toward you in regards to the arm, because it's an incredibly delicate piece of machinery, not that anyone would be able to tell from the way you use it. I'm sure one of the Wakandan engineers would be capable of taking over and doing a fine job, but that's a bit of a distance to fly just for a tune-up. What I don't have is an obligation to be friendly or fun."

"Thank god," the Soldier says dryly, "'cause I haven't seen either, yet."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up," Tony says, not nearly as annoyed as he's pretending. "Look, present circumstances aside, I'm a man who prefers to look to the future than to linger on the past. My-" He pauses, flexing his left hand. It hasn't started shaking again, so at least he's gotten rid of that much stress. This whole thing has been good for _something._ "My _memories_ are sometimes a little unruly about it. That's. That's not going away. But as far as I'm concerned, this is me and you, trying again. Making a new start of it."

The Soldier's face is utterly blank, his pale eyes sharp as blades as he studies Tony, dissecting him. "Okay," he says warily - not unwillingly. "If that's what you want."

"Yeah, I actually do," Tony says, and realizes he really means it. That shoots the conversation completely past 'uncomfortably soul baring' and right into 'intolerably vulnerable' territory, so he quips, "everyone should have the opportunity to betray me while in their right mind." Which. Isn't much better.

"An' if I don't?" Barnes asks him, not flinching, watching him.

"Well, give it time."

Barnes gives no reaction to the dry, deprecatory comment. "Alright," he says, and holds out his right hand, so apparently they're going to shake on it like the weirdest, least professional business deal ever. Despite that, Barnes' grip is firm, and Tony is filled with an odd but intense sense of relief.

It isn't until Barnes' mouth curls into a tentative smile that chases the weariness and heavy shadows off his face that Tony realizes that _he's_ smiling, and this is entirely too weird for him now. Honestly, it's great that Barnes seems to have wanted a resolution as badly as Tony, but resolutions do not require a handshake that lingers too long and smiling at one another like idiots, especially with Barnes looking like _that,_ what the fuck. This is probably exactly why Barnes thinks that it's appropriate to make the kinds of remarks he does to Tony, what with the _implications_ and the _looks._ As if Tony wouldn't notice, holy shit.

"Great, good talk," Tony chirrups, and at least Barnes easily lets go of his hand when Tony tries to disengage. "Let's never do it again."

"Sure thing, Tony," Barnes says, getting to his feet. "You just worry about getting us home."

"Yeah, yeah."

After the door shuts behind the Soldier, Tony sticks his hands between his knees and rubs his palms together roughly. All it is is - what? Stockholm syndrome. On both sides, probably - because Barnes wants to escape this twisted nightmare and Tony's not much better off. He just has to remember that everything aside, Barnes is off limits because not even Tony is fucked up enough to touch that with a ten foot pole.

They can be - teammates. Not friends. Friends is too close. He'll give Barnes the Natasha treatment once they get back home - the one she had _before_ she betrayed him and became emotionally compromised, anyway.

"Spies," Tony scoffs. He's never lived one day in his life without being emotionally compromised, and he's never done half the shit the Avengers did over it. "Yeah, that's right, Tony," he says bitterly. "You just built an omnicidal murderbot while _you_ were emotionally compromised." Maybe the betrayal of one man isn't as big of a deal as he's making it. Has made it in the past.

It's still a long while after that before Tony gets to sleep.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tony:** only someone incredibly fucked up with a vast number of issues could ever like me tbh  
>  **Bucky:** congratulations it's your lucky day  
>  **Tony:** wait no  
>  \--  
>  **tony:** look, all I'm saying is that it would be awkward if i used the wrong name in bed  
>  **bucky:** isn't it a little soon to worry about that  
>  **tony:** it's never too soon for a frank discussion about kinks 
> 
> I got a lot more blatant at things because I realized that if I don't write it in the PoV, you guys don't realize Tony isn't oblivious so much as he is avoidant. Unfortunately for Tony he's been picking up what Bucky was putting down long before Bucky was actually putting anything down because apparently his turn ons include someone chasing him down shouting "sorry" 
> 
> Also I am the saltiest Tony stan, but Tony trends toward cripplingly self-deprecation and im sad about it.


	7. the measure of a man's feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No one ever just wants to murder Tony outright. They always want something from him, and they usually think they can talk him out of it._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Not Rogers. Rogers went straight for the murdering._  
>  \--
> 
> on the subject of empty gestures, various kinds of power, and what having power means for those without it. also tony and bucky hug it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for being steve critical and tony really riding his ass about that i guess?? not sure how many people who like steve have made it this far. it's not like im punching him in the balls but

* * *

There is only so long that Howard can be spared from his other duties without raising suspicions. Apparently, he'd already pushed his luck as far as it would go, and left in the usual bad mood that he often had at being summoned by Generals. He'd be out for the week, matters being what they were and travel being what it was in this time. Tony found it equally demoralizing as they'd just about reached the limits of what they could do with what was already available on base.

In the meantime, Tony did what he did best: the work of a team of men, on his own, with pitiful supplies. This is perhaps the worst situation he's ever done it in give that he currently predates anything that would qualify as even a precursor to the modern computer. Sure, building the armor Mark I had gone surprisingly well, but even that out-of-date junk of a computer had been able to execute his program, and he _had_ built it out of the salvaged remains of his own high-tech missiles.

But Tony wants desperately to return to his own time, and - well, Bucky's depending on him. So.

Bucky is actually depending on him in various ways, not the least of which is to hold him together in some shape and fashion. He spends as long as he can babysitting Things One and Two, but now that Howard is off the base, Bucky's taken to joining him in the lab often enough that Tony just knows that even though it's only been a few days, he's going to miss having Reasonably-Proportioned-and-Murderous around to lend a hand or two. It's not the same as having Dum-E around - Dum-E has a tendency to talk more, for one - but Bucky's hands are steady, his grip precise but delicate, and he always seems to quickly figure out what it is that Tony needs.

"How's building the world's first computer as a science fair project," Tony says, and smiles when the Soldier snorts.

"How's it for _you?_ " the Soldier retorts. "Feel like you're banging two stones together to make a fire, yet?" He glances at Tony through a mask of lashes, which given that the Sergeant has pulled the same trick, must be something native to Bucky - or otherwise he's noticed and is copying it. Whether it's honest or artifice, Tony feels his smile slant a little wider in answer and swiftly returns his attention to the job at hand.

"Well, bang enough and you'll get a fire sooner or later," he mutters. "Just because it _sucks_ doesn't mean it's invalid." He won't be tricked into looking at Bucky again, no matter what kind of amused noises the Soldier makes. He's not stupid enough to risk another _smile._ Stockholm syndrome, Tony reminds himself sternly. Liking Bucky is one thing, this is - no.

"Or cross the right wires," Bucky says faintly. He's frowning when Tony glances out of the corner of his eye. "They had me do demolition before, I think."

A quick little inhale escapes Tony before he sinks his teeth into the words: _Really, because there's something in my pants that could use some disarming._ He can't say something like that. It wouldn't just serve to jar the odd, thoughtful atmosphere and shake the Soldier out of remembering unpleasant things - it'd steer the conversation in a direction that he really can't allow it to go. Later, maybe. Later, when Bucky won't be able to make jokes about treating Howard like a schoolyard bully, Tony can make leering remarks without having them be taken as a suggestion. When Bucky doesn't seem to think he's depending on Tony's goodwill to get him home.

"Yeah?" he says absently, as if the metal and glass under his hands requires more attention than it does.

"I was good at it," he says, and then, "I was good at a lot of things they made me do."

Well, that just doesn't bare thinking about, and so he says, "I've seen you go head-to-head with Natasha on darts. I'd believe it."

It serves its purpose when Bucky exhales as if he'd been holding his breath; he hadn't been. Had barely been breathing. "Is that your metric for skill?" he asks skeptically. "Natasha? Because Barton's better at projectiles than she is. Natasha trained to get close to the target."

"Don't I know it," he says with a grimace, still feels the need to twist his shoulder and neck a bit all these years later. "But I've noticed when she's not playing the 'wounded gazelle' gambit, she prefers to show strength. Skill. Intelligence. She thinks it takes those kinds of things to be respected - or maybe she hangs out with too many people who only respect those traits." He shrugs, and then shakes it off. It's not like he _doesn't_ respect those things, because of course he does, but the world could probably use a lot more of that other stuff that's in much shorter supply. Compassion and heart and care.

Things that his Mom would have sought to sow more of in the world. It's just too bad that Tony is better at the opposite, but that's probably what delegation is for. Those that can't tell others to do, or something like that; Tony certainly gets told to do all kind of impossible things.

"In most situations, anyway," Tony amends momentarily. "Admittedly, things do seem slightly complicated when it comes to the two of you."

Bucky doesn't answer but Tony isn't fooled, only too aware that Bucky's eyes are on him, doing the kind of reading him that has Bucky only all too aware that Tony's been cyberstalking him with FRIDAY's help all these months. It's not as if he tried hiding it, but still. Most people don't jump to cyberstalking. "Yeah, a bit," he finally says. "That was - it was a long time ago. I lost most of it. Like Steve."

Tony chances a glance up and pauses, watching him for a moment; the shadows that flicker across his face chasing tiny flickers of emotion too fast and strange to read - that press in around his eyes and the corner of his mouth until he looks hollow and haunted. "Good thing or bad thing?" he asks.

Bucky swallows, face growing tight. It ages him, like it ages anyone when there's a sudden, unexpected death in the family. "Both, I guess," he says after a long moment.

Turning his eyes back down to where he's carefully soldering, Tony licks his lips and swallows. Quiet, and careful, he makes a guess: "what you do remember haunts you, but you hate that maybe you don't remember something worse?"

Bucky's breath shudders and shakes. When Tony does look up, it's to grief and regret etched into the Soldier's face.

"Oh, hey. Hey," he says, hushed, setting aside the soldering gun. Reaching out carefully, he sets his fingertips lightly to Bucky's shoulder, and when he doesn't flinch away, flattens his palm over it. Slides it down to between his shoulder blades. "It was awful and you hate it but she's alive, right?"

"Not for lack of trying," he says with a bitter curve to his mouth. "I gave her those skills. I knew how to counter them. She was an enemy combatant. I remembered her, I just didn't care. It wasn't part of the mission. I _don't_ care when I'm like that."

"You must have done a damned good job teaching her, then," Tony says carefully, feeling around in the dark. He'd gotten the sense that whatever was between Bucky and Natasha was - something more than what she'd said when she'd explained that he'd shot her. The fact that she'd found that relevant, specifically.

Bucky and Natasha explained that the Red Room and the Winter Soldier project had similar roots, that there had been experimentations with cross training up until their organizations made the decision to change format to the worst kind of gender-segregated summer camp. Tony had assumed that Natasha and Bucky had been contemporaries - not that Bucky had a hand in training her. No wonder they were both so intensely weird about each other sometimes.

"If I had tried to kill her, she'd be dead," he says. "She's espionage, not a soldier."

"Which I would think would entail knowing not to face off against a soldier," Tony points out. "Natasha knows her strengths and weakness, James. She's not going to put herself in a position she can't get out of." He gently taps his fingertips against Bucky's back, and thoughtfully adds, "although that complicates things, with both of you being on the same team now. I'm not sure how much she's going to appreciate it if you trying to Knight in Shining Armor her."

That finally breaks the tense line of Bucky's shoulders and back. He huffs, rubbing briefly at his face with his right hand, like there might have been tears to hide even though there weren't. "That wouldn't go over," he says wryly. "For one, wouldn't want to steal your gimmick."

"Get out. Out. Leave immediately," Tony says with mock offense, pulling away and picking up the soldering tool. "First of all, _no one_ does my gimmick like _I_ do, not even that drama queen from Asgard. Secondly, that gimmick is most definitely not the 'knight in shining armor' - I mean. My armor is very, very shiny and gorgeous, I can't really argue with that - but I? I am hardly chivalrous enough to be a knight. Just ask anyone."

"No?" Bucky says, the words easy for all how his voice grinds a bit, like a rust-locked gear bathed in oiled. "Guess I should take a stroll down to Stark Industries and ask Queen Guinevere her opinion on that, if she can take the time from sitting on the throne you put her on."

"That's - what." Tony nearly sets down everything in a very haphazard manner, too taken aback to manage the feat consciously. Thankfully, muscle memory stops him. He stares at Bucky, mystified, and then - "No. Oh, no, no, no. No. First of all, no, because I wasn't lying about Pep not liking you-"

"I'm not afraid of her," Bucky says.

"You should be," Tony shoots back. "Pepper has actually on more than one occasion tried to kill a man for me, which is admittedly way more hot than it has any right to be. She's the CEO of Stark Industries, which means she has access to _all_ of Stark Industries resources, the most advanced AI on the planet, and she is _ruthless._ She will try to kill you and nothing I say will change her mind on that."

Bucky blinks at him lazily. "Alright. A healthy respect for Miss Potts, which isn't something I didn't have anyway. Shouldn't have to remind you of the kinds of things I know how to do, though. I'm sure Miss Potts and I can work something out."

Tony squints at him suspiciously. First of all, since when had Bucky had a chance to develop something like a healthy respect for Pepper anyway? Even if he _has_ proven to be a bit sneaky when it comes to _feelings,_ mostly pretending he has none other than terror and exhaustion and yet still finding time to cut Tony sly little looks and _implying implications._ Secondly, Tony refuses to even consider what understanding his amicable and very protective ex and _the Winter Soldier_ could work out anyway. He refuses to be distracted when he's having to program this stupid machine entirely in his own head.

"Secondly," Tony says, "if you think for one second that either Natasha or Rogers is going to tolerate you strolling up to Stark Industries on your lonesome, you have one hell of a surprise waiting for you. And if you think I'm letting either of them within eyesight of Pep, then we've had a severe misunderstanding somewhere along the line here."

Because okay, alright, Bucky never asked for any of that. When Bucky got out of HYDRA hands, he fucked off and went to live a quiet life in _Romania,_ apparently, far away from the Avengers and Tony and everyone Tony cares about. He asked to go back into cryo afterwards. Even once back in the States, he apologized but he never acted like it meant that Tony _had_ to forgive him if Tony couldn't bring himself to, and outside of the whole security blanket routine, he hasn't let Tony be a total shit to him but he's kept Tony's head straight _so._

So.

Programming aside, Tony might not _trust_ Bucky the way he'd trust Pepper or Rhodey or JARVIS, but he trusts him perhaps more than he should. More than he trusts the rest of the lot, especially now that they've shown their true colors. He might not have dived into an artificial wormhole for Bucky's sake coming here, but coming out of it?

And despite all of his playacting to the contrary, Bucky isn't an automaton. He's sharp. Aware. Reactive. Even now, lazily bickering with Tony like there's nothing in the world he'd rather be doing, Tony's aware of the conscious, careful attention being paid to him.

He's not really all that prepared for the sudden, uncontrolled twist that Bucky's mouth makes. "What," Tony demands immediately, alarmed despite the bizarrely _pleased_ cast to Bucky's face.

"No, it's nothing," Bucky denies, doing pathetically little to actually reinforce that claim. Tony hasn't seen him this excited about something since he was allowed to get his hands on a set of knives back at the Compound, although considering Bucky's obviously mixed feelings about being armed, that isn't saying much other than Bucky doesn't get excited about things a lot. Tony feels bad about that in retrospect. They'll really have to do something about that when they get back home - let Bucky start growing as his own person again or something.

"No, no, no: it's definitely something," Tony says suspiciously. "I don't trust this whole 'cat-got-the-canary' look you're sporting around here." He gestures to his own face, around the corners of his mouth - Bucky's not _smiling,_ but he's not _not-_ smiling either. It's weird. Strangely appealing. Tony's offended.

Bucky leans back like he's settling in, tucking the curve of his mouth behind a casually curled fist. "You're something else," he says, as if the fist does anything for the rest of the unusually peaceful cast of the rest of his face. "This should be a nightmare scenario for the both of us and half the time I'm _bored,_ and the other half, I feel like I'm on vacation."

"Yeah, well, glad you're enjoying the sight-seeing detour," Tony says dryly, because _basically,_ given the way Bucky makes it sound. "'Welcome to the grand spectacle of the Origins of Captain America, carefully tended to by at least twenty different enablers' - no way _that_ could go badly. Although -" He says, almost a little worried Bucky might go down the path of blaming himself again, somehow, "Interestingly enough, Howard is not nearly as fond of Rogers as he made it sound."

It does very little to wipe the content look off Bucky face. He gives a little shrug, still blinking lazily at Tony like the world's largest not-quite-as-sad dog. "People like to speak well of the dead," he says dryly. "Besides, from what I've seen, no one ever likes Steve as much as they do when he's not around. His memory is easier to get along with than the real guy."

"Yeah?" Tony cuts him an interrogative look, wondering just how true that is for Bucky himself. Then again, maybe Rogers feels that way about Bucky, too, given the way he sometimes tries to ride Bucky's ass, which only really works as long as it takes for Bucky to try to break his face. "Guess that's another thing we have in common. People always think they like me more than they do when they actually have to deal with me."

"Well, now, that's not true," Bucky disagrees, "the people who actually know you seem to like you just fine." And then before Tony can say something about Rhodey and Pepper and Peter being much kinder people than the average person on the streets, Bucky looks at him and deliberately adds, " _I_ like you just fine."

"That doesn't count, your personality is dysfunctional," Tony blurts, to which Bucky fucking snickers and looks like he's having the time of his amnesiac, brainwashed life. "Shut up," he adds, apparently having regressed to being five years old or something. Blustering is really the only defense Tony has left, so he goes with it, saying, "look, I am not as nice of a person as you seem to think I am."

Bucky's eyes glitter at him over the mean points of his fisted knuckles, the sharp white corner of his teeth bared in something almost too savage for how friendly it is. "Not much of a salesman, either," he says, "because I'm not buying it."

"You couldn't afford me anyway," he shoots back. This whole thing is spiraling out of control. He feels like he's played right into Bucky's hands, somehow, as if Bucky had ever had designs for him to play into in the first place.

Arching his brows, he shrugs. "You're right about that," he says, untroubled - satisfied, even - as he gets to his feet. "I should let you focus on your work. Actually kind of looking forward to going back, for once."

Tony grimaces. He's not usually so easily distracted. He watches, cautious, but Bucky's stride from the lab is unhurried and unworried - more of a swagger than the wary slinking he normally does. So at least he shouldn't be going off to go have a crazy episode or anything.

As if Bucky goddamned Barnes has any right to be so self-satisfied, anyway. Tony's just about as easy as they come. Ask anyone.

-0-

Tony does what he's good at, for long hours, most of them alone despite the visits that Bucky pays him, sometimes to remind him that food and drink are things that mortal men need, and that just because Tony _can_ operate on two hours of sleep at a time, Tony _shouldn't_ operate on two hours of sleep at a time. Especially not with all the equations all chugging away inside his head. He needs those perfect and straight and with the smallest margin of error feasible.

But there are a lot of hours spent alone, left to his own devices and hissing with annoyance over this and that while he tries to jury-rig a way back home together. It wouldn't be so bad if the equipment weren't so _frail._ Accustomed to delicate bits and pieces or not, the quality of the parts - the wires, the tubes themselves - meant they are prone to failure. It's at least not _catastrophic_ failure, though.

As for destroying the machine once he and Bucky are back in the future - normally, Tony would simply work some kind of failpoint into the machine. Preprogram it to erase its own data after the two uses. Leave Howard and the SSR with an amazing machine that was completely useless, written in languages that wouldn't exist for decades. Obviously, that's not going to work here. Most of the programming is in Tony's _head._ And it's so delicate and prone to ruining itself that if he tries working a failpoint into it, it might fail in the middle of being used, and that's - no.

But then again. The Sergeant has been uncommonly helpful so far. Tony might be able to talk him into destroying the machine after Tony and Bucky's future self get out of Dodge. The Sergeant might have to enlist the Captain's help, but. Maybe.

Normally, Tony wouldn't think much of it when the door to the lab opens, but normally he's not trying to get as much work done as possible before Howard returns, either. Howard is pretty much the only one that comes in without knocking - or comes in that quietly. Bucky doesn't knock, but he's more noisy than he has to be when opening the door, and the Sergeant is Personal Assistant Pepper Potts levels of precise with his entrances. The rest of the staff fall along a spectrum between Soldier and Sergeant, and so: only Howard barges in.

So Tony is already feeling a sharp flip of surprise when he glances over, and then he jerks upright - doesn't precisely freeze, although he goes very still. Tony hasn't frozen in the face of danger since he was seven and Jarvis ended up putting three neat little stitches into his brow with sewing thread.

"I thought we could talk," Steve Rogers says, crossing the cluttered lab with purpose in his step and a particular set to his brow and jaw.

"Okay, talk," Tony says, more parotting Rogers' words than extending an invitation. He wants to turn his back, lower his shoulders, continuing working - all good options: good, unaffected options. Key - vital, even - to keeping up the fiction that his heart isn't jackhammering in his chest. Usually safe fictions. No one ever just wants to murder Tony outright. They always want something from him, and they usually think they can talk him out of it.

Not Rogers. Rogers went straight for the murdering.

Fictions are nice, but Tony doesn't ever turn his back on something unstable and dangerous, and so he remains still, watching the young Captain approach him with the same kind of determination he must have had when he chose _Bucky._ It didn't have to be a choice - _well,_ maybe it would had to be, but they'll never know now, will they?

Rogers slows awkwardly and finally comes to a stop about where he can still dodge if Tony throws something at him, ducking his chin a bit and eyeing Tony askance. Rogers never comes to Howard's lab. Rogers had to be _coerced_ into Tony's lab, which Tony had gone out of his way to do a handful of times. For what good _that_ had done.

He kind of looks like he wishes he had his shield, or had thought to dress in his uniform. Tony recognizes the look on his face well enough. He's not sure why it never really registered that Rogers would rather punch someone than talk things out. The signs were all there. "Well," Rogers says uncomfortably, "I guess I should start with 'sorry.'"

Tony doesn't so much as blink. "What for?"

He grimaces a little bit, and huffs. "Whatever makes you not like me so much," he says with the tone of someone who thinks Tony is being difficult.

This is entirely too bizarre, Tony thinks, but this isn't immediately murder and so he finally convinces himself to put his shoulders down and pretend preoccupation with the machine. "What makes you think I don't like you?"

"Oh, I don't know," he says dryly. "The way you don't talk to me or even look at me if you can help it."

"I haven't said three words to anyone who isn't Howard."

"You get along with Buck," Rogers says pointedly. Not quite jealousy, but not far from it, either. Too used, perhaps, to people getting along well with his _Bucky Barnes._

Well. That is something to think about. _Does_ Tony get along with the Sergeant? Or maybe Rogers is including the Soldier in on that statement. That aside, Tony hadn't actually taken a moment to consider how Rogers would react to his Best Frozen Boyfriend getting along with him. He hadn't quite expected green eyes to be the answer, though - at least for a younger, less jaded and slightly less resentful Rogers, anyway.

Tony doesn't want to think of what Rogers of his own time would think of it. He still tries to fight Tony about Bucky, which means he trusts Tony less than a brainwashed assassin with a self-preservation streak wider than the fucking Pacific Ocean, so that's the Eighth Wonder of the World.

"Bucky Barnes is a charming, likable asshole and you know it," Tony says flatly, because _this_ Steve Rogers also doesn't know that Tony and Bucky have _history._ As far as this one knows, there's absolutely zero reason for Tony and Bucky not to get along.

"Yeah, I do know that," Rogers agrees under his breath, irritated. "Look, I don't - I didn't come here to quarrel."

"No," Tony agrees, shifting around the machine until he can keep an eye on Rogers while pretending to ignore him. "You came here to apologize, apparently, although you haven't said specifically for what."

Rogers shuffles, looking aggravated. "Well, Bucky seems to like you and he's got a good eye for people. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot."

They hadn't got off on any foot. Bucky and Rogers hadn't been involved in keeping Tony captive during the first week of his arrival, barely even aware that he existed other than as Howard's curio. It wasn't until the third time that Tony had escaped his binding and Bucky had caught him that he'd actually spent any time at all with them. So Rogers could only be referring to the hangar.

"Yeah, it kind of sticks with me when someone tries to murder me with twelve pounds of metal to the face," Tony says sharply, feeling a tremble of the residual panic that had shot through him when he'd realized that Rogers had _cornered_ him. God. He hasn't reacted that badly to Rogers - well. He'd dealt with the problem long before Rogers and his cozy band of outlaws had come back, anyway.

"I wasn't-" Rogers starts, but to his credit, the words die on his tongue when Tony straightens and levels a look at him, hands clenching. He grimaces. "At the time," he amends stiffly, "you seemed to be an enemy."

"Yes," Tony says slowly, "I recall that, too. Which is why we're talking at all right now. Still would have been murder. And if you had succeeded, that would have just made everything worse. If your Bucky had been right, what happened at three different sites across Europe would have happened right here on this base, as my death would just have taken the leash off a weapon capable of spectacular levels of destruction."

Rogers _snarls_ , suddenly full of fire and salt. "Bucky isn't a weapon," he snaps, so defensively it's obviously personal, like he _knows_ the story or figured most of it out. There's barely a pause as he inhales sharply and adds, "either of him," in a tone of unbreakable vibranium meant to slice through any threat.

The screwdriver he'd been clutching rattles right out of his hand, and Tony hisses, incised as it clatters to the floor. "You don't need to _protect_ him from me for god's sake!" The implication infuriates Tony on a good day, but today, now, it cuts deeper than he would have thought possible. Isn't this the way it always is? God, Tony can't even go into the past or another universe, or whatever this is without getting into a fight with Steve Goddamned Rogers because he's getting his supposed morals in a twist over Bucky Barnes.

Rogers glares at him for a good long moment, and then of all surprising things: actually concedes, inhaling as he looks off into some other corner of the lab. "I know that," he says, jaw flexing like he's trying to walk himself back from the edge.

Tony doesn't answer for a moment, studying Rogers warily while his furious heart throbs in his chest, struggling to find a more reasonable pace. "Do you really?" he demands, a bit incredulously, because _does he?_ Does he really?

It takes a few more shallow short breaths before Rogers has his composure. "I do," he confirms, still flushed around the edges and looking unhappy about it. It's only with the greatest reluctance that he admits, "That Bucky, he -" and he swallows. "He doesn't really seem to like Buck and I much."

Tony would feel more sympathetic if Rogers didn't _already_ have his Bucky. A Bucky he knows and likely mostly understands and who actually likes Rogers more than he should, probably. A Bucky willing to kill Tony Stark for him, and holy shit, what kind of fucked up life is this? Where the measure of someone's feelings are measured in their willingness to kill Tony for another's sake?

Tony really needs to spend some quality time with Pepper and Rhodey after all of this is over.

"It's probably less to do with not liking you and more that this whole situation is incredibly disorienting," Tony says flatly. Luckily all he's dropped is a screwdriver, but he sets the part he'd been holding in his right hand down. There's no way he's going to risk his way back home on keeping a level head while talking to Steve Rogers.

"You don't seem disoriented," Rogers points out resentfully.

"I'm not part of the SSR," he dismisses flatly. "Not Project Rebirth or the missions the Howling Commandos took part in. So no, none of this is familiar enough to give me a bad case of déjà vu."

They eye one another for a few moments longer before Rogers turns his attention to machine that Tony is painstakingly putting together, eyeballing it with a familiar level of mistrust - near abhorrence - and morbid curiosity. Probably the Vita-Rays device put him off mad science entirely, Tony thinks dryly. "So what do you do?" he asks.

"This," Tony admits, nodding to the machine. "Equipment, sometimes." He shrugs with a twist to his mouth that no one who knew him would recognize as a smile, but that has fooled plenty of people over the years. "James' arm. Mostly I'm the equipment guy these days, though."

"Like Howard."

The sudden surge of bitterness is sharp and acrid, like vomiting whiskey from an empty stomach. "Yeah, like Howard," he says. _Better than Howard,_ he wants to say. But it might not have been the truth. Howard is held back by the technology of his time. And Tony very likely would have thought the exact same things without knowledge of James Barnes' background - arrived at the same conclusions. He still arrived at a very similar one, with BARF, after all. Hadn't he.

Tony lets Rogers stew on that for a bit, busying himself with mentally overlaying his schematics with what he's actually built so far. Most of it is in place. The power drain will be ridiculous, especially since there's no arc reactor - full-sized or otherwise - to draw that power from. But none of that will matter without the field projectors to warp reality and open the wormhole long enough for Bucky and Tony to pass through. Stabilizers to prevent the wormhole from ripping the fabric of reality apart. No point in trying to return home if that resulted in the destruction of the universe and everything.

The stabilizers aren't a problem. Tony has theorized on and off for years, thanks to popular sci-fi. His work with repulsion technology has brought his ideas into sharp relief. Tony can stabilize reality no problem. It's tearing reality just precisely so, and knitting it temporarily into the part of the fabric where he wants it to be that's the problem.

There's a reason why Tony doesn't produce the team's suits himself. He's awful at seamstressing. Create the fabric used, sure, design the suits, absolutely. Figure out the best places for seams? Forget it.

"You're good with him, you know?"

It's not like Tony would ever forget that Rogers is standing there, but he'd been so quiet and so still for long enough that it still startles a little jerk of out him. Tony stares at Rogers blankly for a second, taking in the weird expression on Rogers' young face - purplexed, almost wistful. Or no: yearning. Staring at the machine, or through it, maybe. "What?" Tony says.

Rogers blinks out of his daze, glancing at him sideways. He looks young and uncertain. And a bit defeated. "Have -" he pauses, then commits: "have you ever heard a tune that you're almost certain you know? Like it's just on the edge of your mind. You think you recognize it, but not where or why. You should know it, almost by heart - but every time you get confident enough to try joining in, it turns out you don't know the notes, or the words at all."

He stares for a moment longer, and then has to try very hard not to think of artful fingers on piano keys, or soft, cool lips against his cheekbone. "Yeah, okay, that's soul crushing," Tony says, because there's absolutely no way he's having a heart-to-heart with Steve Rogers, not even this younger, fresh-faced version. "So what? Sounds like a personal problem."

"A personal problem," Rogers echoes, and looks away. "Yeah, I guess it is. I don't -" he pauses again. This is clearly killing him, and Tony's too bemused and intrigued to give him an easier or harder time than Rogers is giving himself. "I just want my friend back," Rogers says at last.

"Oh," Tony says in surprise, "okay, no. No. Nope. We're not - I'm not doing this with you."

Rogers inhales, short and aggravated. "I'm not asking you to do anything," he says.

"Yes, you are," he fires back immediately, unimpressed. "And it's a really bad idea."

"I'm not," he insists, and "I'm just-" and then apparently figures out he's lying, pausing over the words with his brow bunched impressively. It's unfortunately familiar. Rogers does _so much_ scowling in the future. He must hate everything, and Tony just never realized because he's never actually seen him happy. "Alright, fine - it's just - goddamnit it, Bucky likes you. Both of him do. He's the one that told me I should come here and apologize to you-"

Rogers stops talking when Tony ducks his head, squeezing at the bridge of his nose. So. You know. Points to him. "That is," he says, bile and whiskey, "extremely unnecessary. Please inform the good Sergeant that while I appreciate the thought, the emptiness of the gesture is incredibly insulting."

"Excuse me," Rogers says, stiff.

Tony lifts his head and looks at him, not that he really needs to, but - he'd wanted, a little, to be wrong. No one is ever sorry for trying to kill him, but that's just how it goes - he's a public figure, and an extremely divisive one. It's nothing he's unfamiliar with. Rogers obvious didn't actually come here to apologize, though it's provided him with a convenient excuse.

"Forget it," Tony advises him, flat and tired, and waves his hand like the whole thing is a display that he can send skittering to distant corners of the room as flashes of light. "Look, you came down here to talk about Bucky, so let's hurry this up a bit. I am the _slightest bit_ busy, you know."

Rogers' eyes are hard and sharp, like he might pursue the issue. It would be Tony's own fault for picking a fight when he actually does know better - and Rogers for not knowing how to stay out of one. But Rogers, for once, doesn't take him up on it. "Actually, what I'm really curious about is where I am in all this mess," he says.

He has a funny way of showing it. Other than the proof of the Soldier's discomfort, he wouldn't know that Rogers is curious about any part of this at all. Tony doesn't quite stifle the surprised noise he makes. "How so?"

"Well, I should be here, shouldn't I? Or - I mean, the Steve from your world," he says, and actually locks his saintly blue eyes on Tony like it matters.

Rogers going to other worlds and fucking them up in his search for his Bucky is actually precisely the exact scenario Tony meant to prevent. That this isn't another world and is in fact the _past_ only makes it that much more necessary.

"And what do you think Rogers would do if he had come here?" Tony asks, and finds he's actually curious about the answer.

Rogers opens his mouth and then falters. Without his stubborn certainty, he looks more his age, less like the Rogers that Tony is the most familiar with. "I would - I could be here for him," he says. Even as he says it, he seems to know it sounds inadequate - but he says it. Owns it. Honest and earnest despite the fact that he frustrates and embarrasses himself with just how childish that sounds.

Tony wonders if this is still at the core of Rogers in the future, and he's just never seen it because in a reversal of their current circumstances: Rogers just doesn't like him and Tony could never figure out how to change that. He doesn't agree with it, but he can see why Bucky now holds himself responsible for the unkind, dishonest mess the man is in the future.

"Does he look like he needs you?" Tony asks him, not unkindly.

The way that Rogers jerks makes Tony feel like it would have been kinder to shoot him in the gut - his chest and shoulders give one sharp heave of some kind of emotions that never makes it past his clenched jaw. Rogers looks away and takes a few steps to gain some distance, and watching him retreat is weird and appalling and Tony can't quite look away.

For several moments, Rogers is quiet, struggling with himself. He comes to some kind of decision, rubbing one hand over his mouth roughly. "You know what I used to be like, right? Before all-" He gestures down at himself and refuses to look at Tony.

It's on the tip of his tongue to say something glib and unkind out of habit, but Tony manages to catch the words before they even make it to his mouth to be bitten silent. "I've seen the files," he admits.

Rogers grimaces like it hurts him, even though he'd already guessed as much; Tony knows how that feels. "It was always the other way around," he says, almost managing to hide the raw edges of it. "Bucky's never needed anyone in his life. Not like - not like I did. Do you know how many doctors told my Mom that it'd be kinder to put me down?"

Well, that's - okay, yeah, Tony had seen the files, so theoretically he had all the data, but maybe he'd just never properly put it in context with the popular attitudes of the early century. "My guess would have to be 'all of them,'" he says with a forced tone of nonchalance.

The thing that crosses Rogers face isn't a smile for all that it shares a shape with one. "Just about," he agrees. "The - more _polite_ ones said that I would never have the quality of life that a human being should have so it would have been a kindness. It was an opinion that just about everyone agreed with. But Buck was always better than that."

Was he, when it was the same world that he was raised in, Tony wonders. Was he really, or had Rogers already donned rosey lens? Because the way he says it, although not indecently obvious, is enough that Tony has a dawning understanding of where this whole story was going.

"The one shining light of goodness and justice in an imperfect world," Tony says, because of course that's the name of the game at hand. He can see the logic a hundred miles away.

There had been so many times that Tony himself had thought similar things - but his shining lights had never been just one or two people - it'd been his Mom and Jarvis, and then Rhodey, and Pepper; a dozen strangers reaching out to him in kindness. Adoring children drawing him pictures and writing him fan letters. The people who benefited from his charities and were grateful and went on to improve the lives of others in turn and cited the good work of the men and women that Tony Stark had vetted himself to work there.

Sure, there are billions of people in the world that have wanted to devour him alive, and always had, and always will - but Tony is good looking and charismatic and smart and he has so much money he can never spend it in his own lifetime. That cuts deeply into the number of people who are willing to be a piece of shit to his face.

Strangers on the street aren't going to tell him he's a cripple who is better off dead.

Tony reads the words that Rogers holds close to his heart aloud, and Rogers looks distinctly uncomfortable, and can only glance at Tony out of the corner of his eyes. "It's not like that anymore, of course," he says. "Now, just because of - _this,_ " he says, with an awkward gestures at himself, "suddenly I'm useful and worth lookin' up to. It's like they look at me an' they don't even see the same person anymore."

"Except for Bucky," Tony says.

Rogers nods. He looks satisfied. Relieved that Tony got it, or maybe that he didn't have to say it out loud.

The conclusions continue to unfold cleanly in Tony's mind, because he's always been good at this part - at figuring out the flow of someone's thoughts once he has the same data as them to build from. "And now," he says, "Bucky needs you, and you can finally return the favor."

If only he can figure out _how,_ is the thing, Tony surmises. And so: Rogers is down here in the lab trying to make good with Tony Stark, who is 'good with' the wreck of a man that was once Steve Rogers' Bucky Barnes.

Rogers looks up and meets his eyes with a thin, uncomfortable smile.

"Okay, this is -" Tony says, quickly breaking the connection. _Amazing,_ he thinks. Horrific, actually. Bucky and Rogers are clearly made for one another - they're both propping the other up and making one another the self-same sun in the sky, and binary systems are all well and good for celestial bodies but it's absolutely terrible to have groundside for everyone here on Earth.

"Good god," Tony continues, breathless, "you can't just write off the entire population because some loudmouth assholes make their shitty opinions known to you. You're a public figure now, Rogers - you're _Captain America._ "

Their tissue-thin accord crumples under Tony's reproach. Disgusted, Rogers says, "That's just a stage name," like Tony's being ridiculous. He's not. He _knows_ what happens to the Legend of Captain America.

"Uh - yeah, it is a stage name," Tony agrees, because if he's gotten one thing beaten into the heart in his chest, it's that Rogers isn't a great man - isn't even particularly a good one. "You know how _widely_ stage names are known? People you've never met before will know your face or at least your reputation and that changes things. The name 'Captain America' is just exactly that this body of your that you _apparently_ seem to resent."

"Yeah, they're both lies," he says, flat and angry. "They have nothing to do with me."

"They have _everything_ to do with you!" Tony bends forward, putting both hands on the iron chassis in front of him to lock eyes with Rogers without flinching. "Not who you are, but _what you can do._ That's power. All of this is power. The notoriety and the fame and the six feet of beefcake in the middle of a war and food rationing. You don't have to do anything but _stand there_ and people are already impressed. You didn't earn it, you didn't even actually ask for it, but it's _yours_ now. So what are you going to do with it? Save Bucky? Admirable. And what else?"

"What else is there?" Rogers demands, glaring at him. "I'm already fighting a war."

"Which is good. Fine. Great, even," Tony says impatiently. He shouldn't be surprised that Rogers doesn't seem to get it. He certainly never seemed to get it in the future, either, even though Tony had - well, he hadn't tried _teaching_ Rogers anything, but he'd frequently said 'just show up. You're Captain America. They'll listen to you.' Apparently that hadn't been enough. If he has to spell it out here, now, then he will.

Straightening, he says, "Look at what you have now, Rogers. You're healthy. Big. Handsome. Somehow you're charismatic, even though your personality is shit." Which is rich, coming from Tony, and he says as much: "But I mean. Look at who's talking." He crosses his arms, and rocks on his heels, taking in Rogers' belligerent stance, barely held silent by Tony's willing admission, and goes on the attack.

"The government painted you red, white and blue and put you up in front of everyone. You feel humiliated by it, fine. Sure. You probably should be, because you're not a person to them anymore. Being made into a symbol sucks. But it's already happened, so what are you going to do about it? I'd take advantage of it, myself. Howard is the most successful salesman that I've ever met in my entire life. _Use_ that. You ask him to teach you how to change the world and he'd lose his goddamned mind from happiness."

"Change the world for _what,_ " Rogers says, shifting backwards; this is not an attack he knows what to do with, apparently, and Tony is only too happy to press his advantage.

"For a better one, obviously," he says, exasperated. "What? You don't want to? I really don't know that you _should._ I haven't really seen that you have the temperament for it, Rogers, honestly. The world would probably be better off if you and Bucky just retired to a remote corner of the French countryside and kept to yourselves, never to be heard from again."

"Yeah, that's real easy to do what with the war going on," Rogers snaps. "What do you want from me, Stark? You want me to fight, or do you want me to sit it out?"

"I want you to fight but only if you're fighting the right one for the right reasons!" He's just about shouting at this point, raw and frustrated. "You're still kidding around here like you're still a scrawny, picked-on shrimp, but _look at yourself._ Take a look around! You were given power whether you asked for it or not. And those with power have a responsibility to the people without it."

Tony isn't reaching Rogers at all, he can see it clearly, and it frustrates him, and he doesn't know how to get through to him. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it, screwing his eyes shut and trying to adjust his angle. Otherwise this is just bashing his head into a brick wall and being disappointed when there's no hidden passageway.

"Okay, look," he says, dropping his arms. "Just going out on a limb here, but you don't feel like you owe the world much, do you? And maybe you don't. I mean. It shit all over you, right? You took your licks. You're not Lady Liberty, holding her torch aloft, giving shelter to the huddled, dirty masses."

"Do you have a point here?" Rogers asks, surly, "or are you just in love with the sound of your own voice?"

"Oh, I have a point, I definitely have a point," Tony says lightly, a flush of adrenaline going through him with the need to punch in Rogers' perfect teeth, "but I do also love listening to myself talk, you are not wrong about that. I actually have a point here, and I promise you, I am rarely out _just_ to pleasure myself, so if you could _climb off your high horse and listen to me for a few minutes,_ " the words rush out over gnashed teeth, the closest to a snarl that Tony has ever risked his throat for - he continues with a bright clap: " _That -_ would be lovely."

Rogers puts a saucy hand on his hip, gesturing a welcome with the other, that exact look on his face that says he's already made up his mind, and worse: _he's not listening._

This is the Accords all over again.

Tony takes a moment to reassess, rubs his hands over his face and knuckles his eyes because he's too old and tired to be dealing with this same shit with a _younger_ more headstrong Rogers who hasn't even seen aliens invade out of the damned sky. "Okay," he says, folding his arms across his chest, and looks up. "World ends tomorrow. Did you do enough?"

It takes a few moments for Rogers to really react to that - that it's all Tony has to say. "What?" he says, baffled.

"World ends tomorrow," Tony repeats himself, short and callous. Looks right into Rogers' eyes and asks: "Did you do enough?"

Rogers blinks at him. "Wha - how? I don't understand," he says suspiciously. "How is the world ending?"

Tony shrugs. "Who knows? Bucky and I broke through the time-space continuum from another universe. World ends tomorrow, Rogers. There's no reasoning with it. Did you do enough?"

There's no satisfactory answer to that question - Tony knows. Tony's been tormented by it for _years_ before it finally happened, and no, he'd never done _enough._ Doing enough isn't possible in that kind of situation. He watches Rogers struggle with this same concept, made even more foreign to him by his pathetically limited experiences in the 1940s.

"What are you trying to get at?" Rogers demands at last.

"I ask myself that question pretty much everyday that I wake up," Tony says bluntly, not blinking. "The world ends today. Did I do enough? The answer I come up with is always 'no.' I can always do more. Do better. _Be_ better." This is exhausting. He'd promised himself he wouldn't have any heart-to-hearts with Steve Rogers. It's not like when he tries to talk to Pepper or Rhodey or apparently even Bucky: this is just gross and grueling, with no real hope of any resolution.

"I'm not perfect," Tony continues when Rogers doesn't have anything to say to that - frowning, but at least _listening._ "Not by a long shot. I'm only human. Variable for human error is like -" He grimaces, miming an explosion with his hands - not that it means a lot to Rogers. They haven't actually nuked anyone _yet,_ after all. "I make a lot of mistakes. I try to make up for that. If I see something wrong - I try to fix it. _Actually_ fix it, not just my idea of what 'fixing it' means. The Rogers that I know back home claimed that he felt the same way. I never really saw him act on it, but we weren't exactly living out of each other's pockets, so who really knows."

"You don't like him much, either," Rogers observes, which isn't - it's not what he's supposed to be taking away from any of this.

"Yeah, well," Tony says unpleasantly with a roll of his eyes. "You aren't the first Steve Rogers to try to kill me protecting _Bucky Barnes._ That has to be one of the constants of the universe no matter where you are in it."

Rogers hears that, processes it, nods. "It was as pointless that time as it was this time, wasn't it," he says, which is frankly an amazing sentence to hear out of his mouth.

Tony is stunned enough that he holds up his hand to halt any more insanity out of him. "I," he says carefully, "am not going to lie and say that Bucky didn't need a least a _little bit_ of protection at that time. Like I said. I'm human. I had a very human response to some frankly horrific news delivered in a way no one should have to hear it."

Or so his Accord's mandated therapist had said, anyway. Thank god that had only lasted nine visits before the Council had to either write it off or be down yet another Avenger.

Rogers frowns, but he seems to have enough tact not to ask questions that would be - at the very least - unwelcomed. "You don't like him because he disappointed you," he guesses.

"Do you really want to get into this? I don't want to get into this. Let's really not get into the varied and very complicated reasons why I don't like the Steve Rogers I have to deal with back home, and by extension am at the very least _unsettled_ by you," Tony says, waving it all away. "You wanna hear something ironic? Here it is - Sergeant Barnes seems to like you, so I've been trying to see it, myself. Haven't really gotten a chance to see you at your best, though, so."

"You've seen me fight," Rogers says.

Tony arches his brows. "Is that the best of you?"

Rogers' face is downright cocky when he says, "broke your boy's arm, didn't I?" As if Tony really needs the echo of that crunch rattling around his bones.

Unimpressed, he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. It might be the very look he's given Peter when Peter starts losing sight of what's important. "Let me ask you again," he says. "Is that the best of you? Not - helping little old ladies cross the street, or saving drowning puppies, or putting food in a starving mouth on the street? Fighting is really all you have to give back. That's the thing that you do that you're proud of the most."

The shift is subtle, but it's there. "There's not exactly a lot of time for charity on the front line," he says.

"Yeah, well, it's something to think about," Tony says, clasping his hands together. "They painted you red, white, and blue, soldier boy. Whether that stands for blood and war or it stands for helping your neighbor in their time of need - that's up to you."

Steve Rogers looks at him, serious - open. God, he's _listening_ to Tony. He believes Tony. "You think it'll really be that big?" Rogers asks him. "This - Captain America thing? All I did was go around putting on an act for the soldiers."

"Everyone love a good show," Tony says with a twist to his mouth that feels pinned in place with taxidermy needles. "It's going to be huge. It was in my world. Cap snapped his fingers and otherwise intelligent individuals fell over themselves to get in line and be of use, no information necessary. That's dangerous. That's why if you can't move beyond being that kid who was friends with Bucky Barnes, you have _got_ to get out of the game, Steve. Before real, serious damage gets done to the world or to Bucky."

It's clearly not a happy thought. Rogers frowns like he hates the world and everything in it, but he still looks way too young when he uncertainty asks, "is that - is what happened to him my fault?"

He and the Sergeant are broken records when it comes to each other, Tony thinks in despair - _did I do that? I did that. I'm absolutely responsible for this horrible thing that befell my friend, completely beyond my power._ But he can perhaps see why. This Rogers is still Rogers, but he's different. He listens, for one. And as for the Soldier - well, he's lost a lot of the things that the Sergeant probably thinks of as integral to his personality. Which was kind of the point of what HYDRA did to him. They didn't exactly need a _person._

"No," Tony says, a bit relieved to be able to say something that isn't ugly and guilt-inducing. "But he kind of screwed up things. He was so worried about saving his Bucky that he couldn't see he was just making things worse." Tony shrugs, makes an ambivalent gesture with his good hand, and says, "Hence: the unilateral decision to send _myself_ instead of putting in the position to make any more incredibly poor judgement calls. If I have it my way, we'll both be back before he can even realize his Bucky is gone."

For a long moment, Rogers mulls that over - and then he inhales, and nods his head once, sharply. "That might be for the best," he says. He straightens, pulling himself up at attention. It isn't quite as beaten into him the way it would have been a recruit, but it's still close. Still neat. Formal. His stage handlers trained him well. "You know. I can't speak for him," he says, and meets Tony's eyes. "But I'm glad you're here with Bucky."

And with that awful, damning endorsement, Steve Rogers turns and marches his happy ass right back out of the lab: _job well done._ Tony stares after him, something awful and hollow and echoing rattling through his bones like that final blow delivered while he was prone and bloodied and cold.

Of course, this Rogers couldn't know that the last person that the one back home would want around Bucky is Tony. Getting the blessings of this one is - meaningless. The same kind of lie by omission that Rogers committed against _him._ Of course, Tony doesn't need Rogers' blessing in any way, shape, or form, especially not regarding anything to do with Bucky. Not from some past version with his sob stories and sociopathic tendencies. Tony hadn't realized just how serious it had been, when he'd accused Rogers of being 'Captain Bucky.'

"The only shining light of goodness and justice my _ass,_ " Tony says with an explosive scoff. And he still hadn't even gotten his apology.

Even when gestures are empty, sometimes they're still wanted.

-0-

After that, there's no way for Tony to focus adequately enough to justify working on the machine any further. There's too much he has to hold inside his own head, and there's not enough to do without the final parts that means it'll do any good - he's mostly just been going over the same connections and odds and ends to keep ahold of his sanity for the last few days anyway.

He feel driven to drink in the worst possible way - if there's a _good_ way to be driven to drinking. Of course Tony doesn't, though. He'll chop off his own hand before he falls off the wagon over _Steve Rogers._ He didn't do it back when he was nursing broken ribs and perforated lungs, and he's not doing it _now,_ no matter how impossible it is to keep his left hand still even when he clenches it tight.

He doesn't even bum a cigarette off one of the staff around base, or the Commandos themselves, who frankly smoke like stackhouses and frequently use them as currency during their card games. He's never had the taste for it, and after the arc reactor - well. He _could._ Extremis did enough for him that he doesn't have to worry too much about contaminates in his lungs anymore - an unforeseen advantage during that whole Thanos deal - but he'll be disgusted with himself later.

There's no roof or party deck to go mope on, but Tony does the next best thing by lurking outside the build just out of reach of the golden halo of a light on the wall. He gets made by pretty much everyone who comes by, staff and patrolling officers alike, but no one tells him to go back inside or stops to interrogate him about it. So.

Or at least none of the staff do. Tony has his own murderous shadow that apparently misses his security blanket enough to come hulking out of the darkness at him. It's not even from the direction of the door for fuck's sake. Where _does_ the Soldier go when he wants to be alone and how does he get there, anyway? Maybe he knows a way onto the rooftops.

"Bells," Tony says in greeting. "That's what you need. Little bells on your toes. Or a tear-away collar. We'll get you one with diamond studs that spell out 'Princess.'"

"Sure," Bucky says, because apparently he'll agree with anything when Tony's like this. He'll make a note and use it against Bucky later. "No offense, Tony, but lurking around in the shadows on cold nights is kind of my gimmick."

"Who are you? Batman? My parents were the ones that got killed," he snipes, so wow, apparently his mood is sterling.

It's hard to make out Bucky's expressions in the murky darkness - he's better skilled at lurking than Tony is, honestly: Tony's awful at lurking. He's much better at hiding in plain sight, all eyes on him. What he can make out of Bucky's face is pocked by shadows, but not drawn or pinched, letting the words roll right off his back. "So, your talk with Steve went that well," he observes dryly.

"Did your saner half warn you and send you looking for me?" Which at least isn't: _fuck you, we had a talk about ambushes._

At least Bucky seems to realize it. After a moment, he stirs closer and then muscles in and tries occupying the same wall space that Tony is. Tony nearly squawks with offense - it's that or snarl, and if he snarls, he'll go for Bucky's jugular - up until he realizes that, _yes:_ it is a cold night, and also super soldiers produce a lot of body heat. Enough that it goes through the thick weave of both of their jackets. Then it's just a manful struggle to stand in place and not huddle into Bucky like he's Rhodey. Tony's not a kid that can justify climbing anyone's back and sticking his hands in their jacket pockets anymore. Even if Bucky could probably handle his weight without a problem.

Tony's not too proud to huddle into his warmer compatriots if it's cold, but he's a bit pissed right now. It's the principle of the matter.

As the warmth seeps through where their sides are smashed together, Tony grudgingly allows, "he's not _that_ much saner." That had been kind of a low blow, even for him.

The air in Bucky's throat kind of scrapes. "Doesn't feel that way," he says, thin and kind of wistful. "They scrambled his head a bit, but they didn't put something else in there that doesn't belong. He doesn't have to worry about his free will. Not haunted much by ghosts, either - not the kind that I am."

"Yeah, well - there's more than one way to be crazy," Tony says. What else is he supposed to say? The Sergeant is his own kind of crazy - not the kind that others drive you to, but what you do to yourself. "It's slightly less flashy and definitely less fashionable, but it's all gerbils on wheels in there. I mean, apparently it was his idea to sic the Captain on me, and I'm sure everyone can agree no one sane would do that."

It sounds _slightly_ less painful for Bucky to breathe, or maybe he just stopped trying altogether, other than the harsh snort he gives in response. "What part of everything that happened to me is _fashionable?_ " he wonders skeptically.

"Oh, come on," Tony says, giving his boot a glancing kick. "Brainwashed assassin? Amnesia? It's all very Hollywood. Almost suspiciously so. If I didn't know that strangers make your trigger finger twitchy, I'd accuse you of making it all up."

It's not a laugh, but it's something akin to one, all oiled-rust that sticks only for a moment before tumbling free. Something a little helpless and pathetic behind the feral threat of white teeth visible even in the gloom. It's all very weirdly Big Bad Wolf, and Tony's chest thumps in a way that has nothing at all to do with fear, so that's. You know. Probably a sign that he needs to be committed. Wormholes are bad for his neurological health, and his psychological health. He has a history with these things. Rhodey will understand.

Well, Tony very probably has a very strange fear response. It does take a very special brand of crazy to think flying suits of armor are a good idea. How many years did it take for him to think about installing parachutes again? Checkmate.

"I didn't think you'd appreciate it much if I burst into the room like you needed savin', or anything like that," Bucky says into the night air, so apparently Thing One and Two are double dicks pulling this shit on them both as a surprise. Wonderful. Not actually surprising at all, given who it is, but still.

It gives Tony pause. Because he would have, actually. He might have told Bucky he can fight his own battles - and he can, that's not a problem - but a show of support would have been -

"Well," Bucky amends after a moment, a bit wryly: "I'll keep that in mind."

"I didn't actually say anything," he protests mildly.

His voice is rough and lacking reproach. "Don't always have to. Of course, it wouldn't go amiss, either. I don't actually have a lot of fun guessin' at people's motivations, even if I'm usually pretty good at it."

Tetchily, Tony says, "What, I'm sorry. You actually expect me to talk about my feelings? I don't really have a great track record with that. Not with the talking - the talking's fine - I can talk all day. But you know. The other half of that equation is pretty important, the - you know - the part that makes it _worth_ it to do the talking -"

"I do listen to you," Bucky interrupts, low and weirdly patient, and Tony's teeth click together.

His teeth click and he breathes, slow and shallow, and doesn't lift his head. He's all too aware of the weight of Bucky's eyes on the side of his face, peering into the blank blackness of the night. Too many lights around to see the stars, which is just sad. The stars are supposed to be brilliant before all the light pollution of the latter days got in the way. Not that Tony can really stare at stars without getting a panic attack these days. Even now. Still. Long after the danger is past.

"Yeah, it's a bit creepy, James," he says. "Haven't you done enough listening? That's what I always end up thinking. Listening. Taking orders. Excuse me for getting a little squeamish about it sometimes."

"Sure, but how about you let me worry about that," he says, shifting next to Tony; not quite pulling away, not quite jostling him, _kind of_ pressing a bit into his shoulder. Bucky aims his next words out into the empty night, a little exhausted: "it's easier than talking, anyway."

Well, that's something. Tony can sympathize with that. Hopefully it's not so bad as him having a talk with _Rogers_ \- can't be if Bucky's basically egging him on, right? He's literally asking for it. Tony is not to blame.

"Look, I just think," comes tumbling out of his mouth almost immediately, "that people should realize I don't actually like getting ambushed by their boyfriends. I mean. It wouldn't be the first time someone I got a little extra friendly with had a significant other they failed to make me aware of, only I was completely aware this time, and there was significantly less jealous rage but _not_ a non-zero amount, and - okay, so it wasn't like any of those previous times at all, but to be fair, this is my first rodeo with not-so-frozen super soldiers."

"You're gonna get Steve court-martialed with that kind of talk," Bucky says, as if that was something the military would ever even dream of doing to Captain America even if he was queer. Is he queer? Tony has never been able to read him either way. It doesn't really matter. If they didn't draw and quarter him over going after Bucky, they won't do it for dating the self-same. Bucky sounds more thoughtful about it than really concerned, anyway, like the idea is academically interesting and not an actual threat. The Sergeant probably would have broken out in hives about it about five sentences ago, if he were here to hear it. "He's not my boyfriend, anyway."

"Alright, ex, whatever, I don't care," Tony says, "the fact remains that Cap really does not cope well with other people touching his things. Who dropped the ball on teaching him about sharing? Was it you? Because I feel like this is your fault and there's a distinct lack of charity and understanding in my heart right now."

"That's not really my department," Bucky says, dry as a bone, "why don't you try filing your complaint with Sergeant Barnes?"

Something barks out of Tony which isn't at all a laugh but might pass for one. It's slightly hysterical. He might be in the middle of some kind of anxious breakdown, or at least an ugly release of tension. "Yeah? What is your department? Incredibly petty decorated war heros? Twitchy, two-faced spies?"

Completely unperturbed by whatever is happening next to him - even Tony doesn't know what it is, and it's happening to him - Bucky says easily, "Nah. None of those are a good fit for me. Still holding out to see if one that suits me better has an opening."

Is he serious. Is Bucky Barnes really - he is not smooth. Tony's pretty sure that Bucky isn't even trying to be smooth, which - should he be offended by that? He's not going to - _but_ if Bucky is going to _imply implications,_ shouldn't he at least put out some actual effort instead of just taking for granted that Tony's pathetically easy?

Exactly how many layers are they into this whole 'he knows that Tony knows that he knows' are they, anyway?

Feeling a little offended on behalf of Rhodey, who would be offended if he were here and knew about this - and would probably have made at least seven attempts to kick Bucky's ass by now, if Tony's being honest about it - Tony says, a little bitchily, "even if an opening does occur, you're bit a little bit out of luck if there is literally even one other applicant. Your resume is a tad underwhelming."

"Huh," Bucky says, and then, "pretty sure I have alternative means to discourage the competition."

Tony reels back and squints at Bucky, which is incredibly ineffective given that it's late enough at night that most of the soldiers are in bed and Bucky's better at lurking than Tony is. "Did you just," Tony says, which is a a bit pointless, because he _knows_ he just heard Bucky theoretically threaten to murder someone over the dubious opportunity to be Tony's minder. Or possibly significant other, he's not entirely clear on that one. It's pretty much the same thing, or usually is; wouldn't be if Bucky's involved. Bucky needs a minder at least as much as Tony, if not more. Kind of. Tony's actually been doing a pretty good job so far, if he does say so himself.

Bucky glances at him from the corner of his eye. "Too far?" he wonders.

And honestly it should be. It would be if Tony didn't know precisely how much Bucky hates violence. The Sergeant is significantly less squeamish about it. "Timing," he says instead. "I'm kind of trying to angst about preaching charity to Captain America while also dooming both him and your incredibly angry and jealous younger self to all of - everything. Assassin jokes are kind of pushing the boundary of good taste."

Bucky actually has the audacity to scoff at him. "Really, Tony?" he asks dryly. "You say all that after watching me train those two for days, warned me about a 'never ending war' - and apparently you're tryin'a make an leader of men outta Steve after everything he's done to you. Does that sound like the actions of someone who has resigned themselves to letting everything that happened just happen?"

"Well it's certainly not enough to _stop it,_ now is it?" he snaps. The world ends tomorrow. Has Tony done enough? The answer is sickeningly obvious.

Lips peeled back in a sneer, Bucky stares off into the darkened base, at other lights on other buildings far out of base-human earshot. He has to feel the way that Tony's hand trembles against his thigh, trapped between them the way it is, but it's a long moment before he says something.

"I get it," he says, low and awful: a little ripped raw, like something fleshy torn from his throat. He doesn't look at Tony. "I get why you're worried about changing it. I don't exactly think you're wrong. And yeah - a part of me - it's awful. But who knows what'll happen when everything goes down if Steve and I die here, or fifty years later in hospice? You're right. Everything could change. Maybe all of humanity dies. Maybe it's not humanity, maybe it's just _you._ "

That should sound like an accusation, but it doesn't. It doesn't even sound aimed at _Tony,_ so much as Bucky saying something to prod something painful inside himself, like he has some kind of Tony-shaped bruise or broken bones where Tony's fist fits perfectly. Like Tony dying is not an eventuality that Bucky's prepared to accept, and that's.

He doesn't know what that is.

"I hate," Bucky says, stumbling and struggling with the words like verbalizing an opinion is a foreign goddamned language to him that he hasn't tried using in years. "I _hate_ the idea that at some point in the past, you were there - _here_ \- knowing what you do, and it all happened anyway," he says, stilted, and Tony inhales deeply and clenches his fist as tight as he can, until the nails bite into the flesh of his palm, drawing no blood only because the callouses are so thick. "But I think you're right - I don't think it can change without goin' worse. You shouldn't be alive, Tony," he says, and he sounds miserable and distressed, like just thinking about it is enough to start pulling too hard on the tangled tatters of his mind - tie it up into some kind of ugly knot that'll only get worse the more it gets pulled at. "And I don't think I can handle that."

"Christ, James," Tony says, and before he can overthink it, he says, "Come on. C' - hey, come on. Come here."

So that's how Tony finds himself with his arms full of pathetic, sad, brainwashed assassin outside a military base in the forties, of all eras to try something like this in. At least he's fairly certain that Bucky won't stick a knife in his gut over it - Bucky's too busy doing his best to make himself small, hunching in around Tony like he can't decide which of them is more in need of protection. Tony does his laughably inadequate best, considering basic physics and body mass, but Bucky's significantly smaller than the Hulk, so he makes do.

"Come on, Vincenzo, you're killing me," he repeats himself uselessly, because what even is comforting? "Which is slightly ironic, given the circumstances. I'm pretty sure I should be dead so many times over I'm basically functionally immortal. So whatever - it's nothing to worry about, okay? I'll - I dunno: upload my brainwave patterns into an AI or something. With a hologram, maybe. I can't deprive the world of my beautiful face. Which is all just a moot point anyway. The main thing is - you don't have to worry about that because the future isn't going to change."

"You don't know that," Bucky says, muffled into the crook of Tony's neck, because he _does_ actually get an accurate read on Tony sometimes, probably helped by how well he can probably read Tony's pulse at the moment.

"I am - _reasonably_ sure," he argues. He is reasonably sure. The argument that could be made for alternative dimensions is looking pretty solid. His hand is probably unpleasantly cold, but the left is totally useless, still wobbling even though he has it grasped tight in the back of Bucky's jacket, so he locks the right around the back of Bucky's neck, rubbing his thumb over the knot of bone. This would be a lot more pleasant if Bucky weren't trying to cope with the fact that he hates Tony and yet can't hate Tony, and apparently has some kind of weird fixation on him that tangles all up in his programming and scrambles his head worse than most.

Well, that makes two of them, doesn't it? Sergeant Barnes had always been more accessible to a young Tony Stark than the Irreproachable Captain America. And then - and well, then: everything else. Everything since. T'Challa coming to him and implacably saying: _Sergeant Barnes is asking to come home._ What else could Tony do in the face of that? What can he do in the face of _this._

"The future isn't going to change," he says, even though he doesn't know that. He's reasonable sure. If they haven't erased themselves yet, then that's - that indicative, although of what, Tony's not sure. What good does warning the Sergeant and trying to preach charity to the Captain and training them to be better, stronger, faster do if everything that happens still happens? "And if it does," he says, and breathes deep.

For a moment, Tony allows himself stop worrying about everything. The past. The future. Himself and Bucky Barnes. The machine and Howard and the Sergeant and the Captain. For a brief - painfully brief - moment, he just allows himself to exist solely in his body, frail and tired and breakable. Even Bucky - the soft warm skin of his neck, the shallow, tight, panicky breaths he's taking against Tony's shoulder, his right arm clutching tight and the left neglected, only grasping onto the bottom of Tony's jacket - feels weirdly breakable. Less like a murder machine only mostly made of flesh and blood, more like a lucid dream easily burnt away when exposed to a cloudless sky.

"And if it does," Tony says again, "it's not like either of us are leaving the other behind."

Bucky croaks, there's no other word for it. "I don't want to get erased anymore," he says, and it's possibly the most soul crushing thing that Tony's ever heard, more so than anything else he's heard all day, or ever.

"This is an extremely high profile assassination," Tony complains unhappily even as he tightens his grip on the back of Bucky's neck, straining the arches of his feet to shove up into the pathetic crook of his body, "very public, very visible. You're slipping, Casper. You fans will be so incredibly disappointed."

It takes Six Foot and Murderous a few seconds to get with the program, to drop his arm down around Tony's waist, but he does, and that's - better. Less claustrophobic. Tony's rib cage has been mutilated so many times over the last decade that any stress on it is as bad for his mind as it is for the actual bones themselves. "There you go," he approves, wrestling control of his left hand to pat Bucky's back.

Who knew that Tony would be called upon to give so many hugs? He's the hugging grampa. It's all Peter's fault, honestly. Tony's hugged more teenagers over the last year that he ever expected to even personally know in his entire life. Of course, hugging Bucky is - very different, in many, many ways.

"I can't," Tony says, and struggles with it, and feels a bit like crying. "I can't promise you we don't get erased. I don't have the technology to figure out the likelihood of that, or find a way to prevent it, or -" he feels small and helpless, which is a crushingly familiar feeling. Tony has spent so much of his life feeling at the mercy of a cold and incautious universe. This isn't keeping Bucky out of HYDRA's hands, which logically, Tony can't prevent entirely either, so what hope does he have against weird science he lacks the tools to test and comprehend? "But you're not alone, James. Not this time."

The breath that Bucky takes sounds suspiciously wet, and he says nothing, so Tony just rubs his thumb over the skin of his neck and leaves it at that. The embrace lingers long enough that Tony's toes have long since gone numb, but it's not like they're in a terribly secluded location - Bucky spooks out of it and a step away, wary and wild around eyes too bright in the gloom to be entirely dry. His hearing is sharp enough that it doesn't look like they've been caught being up to no good when one of the soldiers doing night patrol comes by, giving them a curious look but not stopping.

Tony wonders if this is what high school normally feels like, a bit incredulously. Only with more psychological problems and sheer existential terror. Then again, teenagers these days seem to have both in spades what with the constant alien invasions and threats of world-ending destruction from jackasses who grew up on this planet.

"Sorry," Bucky rasps like he's spent the last hour screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah, make it up to me by holding it together until we get home," Tony says, totally failing to hit the 'annoyed' mark. It had been a flimsy effort anyway. "Which we are, by the way. I haven't been putting up with _vacuum tubes_ in a pre-punch card programming era _not_ to get the both of us back where we belong. Give me a little credit."

Bucky scrubs his fingers over his eyes, saying, "Howard's gonna have a field day with what you've put together. Finding clever alternatives to circuit boards isn't quite not building circuit boards, Tony." He peers out from behind his hand. "The future might not even run on circuit boards anymore. Then what?"

"Oh, like you could do better," Tony says, annoyed. "It's literally impossible to get the complexity required by the system I'm building at the current technological levels! I'm _not_ dealing with paper-based programming."

And if he ends up advancing science way ahead of schedule - well. Well. Well, fuck. He's doing his best. Bucky has a point. For all that he's been insisting on not changing the future, he certainly didn't stop Bucky from training Things One and Two, and he certainly hasn't kept his own mouth shut. He's already going to punch through the time-space continuum. At this point the rest of it is all just collateral damage.

He'll just enlist the Sergeant's help destroying the machine. After that earlier talk with Steve Fucking Rogers, Sergeant Barnes owes him a favor or two.

"Alright, you need some sleep," Tony declares, returning his attention to the matter at hand: his dangerously emotionally unstable murder-shadow. "I'll even let you use my arm as a pillow again, but you, my friend, are definitely getting some sleep tonight - no more micronaps or chewing coffee grounds or whatever you've been doing. I let it and sleep slide, and all that's done is make you nuttier than usual."

"That cot ain't big enough for the both of us," Bucky points out reproachfully.

Clapping his hands together, Tony bares his teeth. "Congratulations, you've just volunteered yourself as mattress stuffing," he says brightly. It's not like his rib cage can really handle the strain of Bucky's several hundred pounds of murder-muscle, so it was a foregone conclusion, but still.

"I regret every choice that's lead me here to this moment," he says dryly.

But he very placidly follows Tony back into the building, so he's probably lying about that.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tony:** i have very high standards  
>  **Bucky:** i'll listen to you talk  
>  **Tony:** _oh no, he's meeting all my standards_  
>  \--  
>  **Tony:** my kinks are mutual respect and admiration  
>  **Bucky:** i can work with like .... two thirds of that, the respecting _me_ bit is a little  
>  **Steve:** mine is being held to a higher standard  
>  **Bucky:** steve no  
>  **Steve:** but  
>  **Bucky:** you weren't invited pls leave 
> 
> would you believe i expected slower burn than this tho. well. i mean. rn tony's planning on immediately leaving for malibu of smth when they get back meanwhile bucky's already mentally put a ring on it but. really. i mean. how far do you really think tony's going to be able to get vs nearly three hundred pounds of persistent brainwashed assassin. shotguns are a normal feature of assassin weddings, right. right?? listen if the venue doesn't explode before they walk down the aisle, that's basically the equivalent of an enthusiastic 'i do' from tony 'i dont want to be here anymore so im setting the entire place on fire' stark.


	8. the best antique on the line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Trying to summon demons," Howard says dryly, and then shrugs. "Or whatever - astral beings they're convinced mankind has mistaken as demons and angels."_
> 
> _"What could possibly go wrong with that," Tony says flatly, never so completely unimpressed in his life. The only worse thing would be if they were trying to summon the Chitauri - which: granted, may actually be exactly what they're doing. They don't deserve wormhole building devices. Tony's going to enjoy taking their toys away._  
>  \--
> 
> awkward bedsharing shenanigans, Howard Stark, and why Tony's awful with firearms when he built weapons for a living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was originally going to skip the awkward bedsharing, but hell, what's the point in that? I'm shipper trash, after all.

* * *

It isn't enough to have him wobbling on a wire. Tony's wobbled wires before, for months at a time while his time on this earth ticks down, down, down, inexorably. A death sentence given and delivered by his own hands. Only delaying the inevitable. Everything that Tony's faced since has always had that measuring stick: is it as bad as his flesh and blood blackening with rot? Is it as bad as flying a nuke? Is it as bad as facing Ultron? Is it as bad as -

He's not doing _great,_ he knows. But the margin for error at this time is still wide and forgiving.

"It's not that I don't get what you're aimin' at," Bucky says, lurking outside the doorway to their temporary, shared residence - as if he hasn't happily barged inside plenty of times to either ambush Tony, or watch him sleep like some kind of fucking creep. "But I don't think I'm going to fall asleep with someone else in the room, let alone -" he gestures speakingly at the cot.

Tony doesn't bother looking at it. He doesn't need to. He's intimately familiar with the exact dimensions and load bearing capacity of the seams and reinforced metal frame. He also knows that Bucky Barnes is a goddamned liar, because he distinctly remembers waking up to Bucky dozing on his arm, which isn't any less alarming now than it was then. It's just that Tony's needs and Bucky's needs weigh more than Tony's consistantly weak grasp on prudence.

"Well, security leaves a lot to be desired. Just about anyone in a uniform that walks confidently enough could wander in. There's also the slightly alarming reality that the only real face we have on file for HYDRA is Red Skull, as if he really needs an introduction," Tony observes dryly. "That leaves about - oh - ninety-eight-point-three percent of the people physically present on the base currently, not counting the people who have come and gone over the week."

"... Jee, thanks, Tony," Bucky says flatly. "I really feel like sleeping now."

Unimpressed, Tony gives him a look. This is not new information for Bucky. It probably occurred to Bucky before it occurred to _Tony,_ which is saying something.

This is, historically, one of HYDRA's most prominent eras. An argument could be made for the fact that they'd infiltrated SHIELD at some of the highest levels for who knows how long - but Tony's pretty sure that an entire world war creates a much more fertile ground for their cause than pretending to be SHIELD. Only because Tony knows how important sleep is to cutting down on his miscalculations when he lacks the resources or an AI to pick up the slack, and also because he's unfortunately familiar with being taken captive, has he himself managed to get any sleep at all, period, himself.

Accounting for that, there's honestly no way Tony is doing all that much better than Bucky. A little bit better, maybe; Tony can at least rest easy enough knowing that he has an unpredictable but vengeful murder machine watching his back. It's just never a good sign when Tony escalates to hugging people as an answer, that's all. Sure, it had mostly been a manipulative attempt to make Bucky stop causing Tony emotional distress on top of the baseline psychological strain he's constantly under, but Tony doesn't - you know. Initiate that kind of thing. Not really. Inviting other people to initiate is always a much safer bet.

 _Sure,_ he might have gotten something out of it - more than just sore feet, anyway. This isn't news to Tony. He knows he's tactile; he'd been derided as clingy as a child often enough to know that much, and if not that, then his years of experience with both Pepper and Rhodey would have been evidence enough. That isn't what is bothering him - it's the fact that he got something out of hugging _Bucky Fucking Barnes._ If he ever gets a therapist, they're going to have a field day.

Looking at Bucky lurking in the doorway, one hand clamped to the door frame - the right hand, so that's indicative - and rocking the whole crazy hobo chic look again, _Bucky's_ therapist is going to have a field day with Tony's bank account. He looks like he needs at least several more hugs. Possibly while the hugger is dressed in a K9 tactical bite suit.

Bucky is possibly thinking the same thing about Tony, actually, now that he thinks about it - there's no way Tony doesn't have the classic unwashed mad scientist look going on again. Maybe he shouldn't be casting stones, no matter how good his aim is.

"Even if that thing does hold up," Bucky says doubtfully, "you think either of us are really going to sleep?"

"Won't know until we try," Tony says, then: "well. Not really. But the way things are going, something has to give, and I'd really rather it not be one of us, you being -" He gestures. "And me being," and then repeats it, indicating himself. "So. Twenty minutes of concentrated effort, _trying_ to sleep - or meditate or whatever new age coping methods your therapist has been feeding you - and if neither of us sleeps before then, we give this up as a bad idea."

It had worked sometimes for Tony at Pepper's request when the nightmares were especially persistent and his heart struggled to find a reasonable pace to take. It's not like he could have really risked becoming addicted to sleeping pills, after all, and once it became a matter of putting the drink away or complete liver failure, there hadn't been a lot of other options.

If the whole - hugging… thing - was indicative of anything, it was that it _might_ work on Bucky, or maybe Tony, or if they were very lucky: both of them.

"Right. Twenty minutes, huh?" Bucky says. He doesn't look any more convinced about the situation than he had before Tony explained it, but he does look a little less like he might bolt. "And you think that somehow we're both gonna use this thing."

"Well, I'm in no condition to sleep either," Tony says dryly; between getting cornered by Rogers and listening to Bucky wring himself out, even if he can get to sleep, it'll be nightmare city. " _I_ fully intend to check in on those patches I put on your arm. Chances are ten to one you need something rearranged or replaced. Don't think I didn't notice you haven't been using it and I haven't heard it recalibrate in almost a week."

"Haven't had a need to," Bucky says, much too promptly for a anything but a prepared deflection. Tony's face must speak volumes of his opinion on that, because he grimaces and reaches up to scratch his thumbnail through the stubble on his jaw - then realizes that he's given the game away, allows himself to slump into a defensive hunch, curling his hand around the back of his neck and giving Tony a pathetic set of puppy eyes.

It's annoying. Offensive. Tony can't even get mad at him for it because he suspects that Bucky isn't even aware he's actually doing it. It's not nearly coy enough for the bullshit he pulls on purpose, and not feral enough to be a warning.

"My god," Tony says in disgust, with himself, the situation, and even - or especially - Bucky Barnes. "Seriously. Onto the cot."

Even as he moves to comply, coming inside and shutting the door behind him, Bucky tries to delay it by fooling around with his boots and belt. Tony's not sure what his hang up is. The way he's been working Tony, he should only be too happy to get him horizontal. Bucky doesn't strike him as the sort that's allergic to emotional outbursts - HYDRA beat all normal measurements of shame and dignity out of him.

Well, that's probably his answer right there.

"Alright, look," Tony says, quickly circling the cot. He grabs the rickety chair that Bucky normally lurks in when ambushing Tony, dragging it to the side of the cot until it's sat at Bucky's left side, and then drops into it. Bucky eyes him, cautious and wary, which only really proves his point. "Five minutes," Tony says, splaying his hand out. "Five minutes with the arm, just to make sure nothing has gotten caught or tangled. That good?"

Bucky just narrows his eyes at him and says, "Thought you were gonna look at it while I - meditated, or whatever."

Tony grimaces, tucks two fingers down, and seriously says, "Okay, three minutes. That's not long enough to actually fix anything, but I should be able to diagnose any issues and we can schedule shoptime later." When Bucky just stares at him for a moment, Tony crosses his arms and gives him his dirtiest look and says, "You drive a hard bargain, Barnes. Two and a half minutes. Any less and we should just trash the deal because percentages dip into unacceptable margins of error and hubris."

"You calculate for hubris," Bucky says blankly, blinks, and then says, "of course you do."

Tony straightens. "You sound impressed," he observes, intrigued. "Are you impressed?"

Less impressed and more exasperated, if the eyeroll Bucky gives him is anything to judge by. "No more than usual," he says, easy as that.

It is easy as that. Tony is accustomed to impressing. Impressing people lost its shine around when he was twenty-five and he realized how meaningless it all was. But then impressing Rhodey or Pepper is something completely different - they get impressed for the right reasons. Their opinions mean something. Tony ignores the funny little thrill of excitement that tickles his chest, shifting on the chair in a rather vain attempt to get comfortable. "So," he says, "two and a half minutes with the arm, shoptime to be announced, and at least twenty minutes on the cot. The whole night is the more desirable outcome, naturally, but baby steps are acceptable. Good. Great, even. I'll clear out and everything. It's not like I'm getting anywhere with the wormhole machine, so there's no point in me hoarding sleep."

It should be enough to satisfy anyone, but this is Bucky, so of course Bucky just looks at him funny and says, "I'm not kicking you out of your room."

Well, that sounds like a favor-debt mindset, given Bucky's thoughts regarding Tony and the pardon and therapy - as if any of that was out of the goodness of Tony's heart and not selfish self-interest. It's a pain in the ass.

"You know when I first arrived in this era," Tony says over the fold of his arms, leaning back slightly, "they were keeping me here, in this very room, only with much fewer accommodations and a few extra accessories. Trust me. I'd _love_ to be kicked out of this room."

It's a bit eerie watching Bucky deliberately read him, taking in the set of his jaw and the angle of his shoulders, from spine to hips to where Tony's feet are set in relation to the legs of his chair. The way Bucky then looks around the room - not with new eyes or anything, because he probably figured this all out on the first day here - is unsurprised but assessing. Measuring. Calculating. And then he fixes that same look on Tony again, this time keeping to his face, measuring Tony's intentions like the most feral of wild animals.

"Alright," Bucky says at last, "point. It ain't the Taj Mahal."

Tony quirks a brow. "I should hope not. The Taj Mahal is a mausoleum."

Bucky registers this, and beyond the flicker of confusion, doesn't pursue the impression he somehow got that it was a resort. "Even better," he says. "But you haven't exactly been sleeping tight, Tony."

He'd hardly expected Bucky not to notice, but he just gives a depreciating shrug. "One night won't kill me."

One night won't kill Tony. It won't be _easy_ like it used to be, when he'd get sucked into one project or another and the next thing he knows, Pepper is telling him he hasn't slept for three days. His body is already aching and throbbing with the poor quality of the sleep he's been getting and not even _trying_ to rest will make that worse, but - they're on a military base where the scariest thing around is goddamned Steve Rogers. And Rogers is probably not going to try killing him, if he's right and his Bucky likes Tony - not the Soldier would probably let him, but having his Sergeant pissed at him is probably not high on the Captain's wishlist.

Compared to the Soldier, who is such a wreck he's having crying jags in front of Tony now, it's nothing.

Of course, Bucky has his own opinions, and judging by the expression on his face, _he's_ considering killing Tony. "That's one night for _you,_ maybe," he says, "but if you don't get any shut-eye, I'll never hear the end of it."

"What," Tony says blankly, and then, "wait, are you talking about-" Well, of course Bucky isn't talking about anyone in the base, and it's not like Tony's AI would know, as much as she loves to smother him. That leaves the hallucinations. "Wow, Fake Tony is an asshole."

Bucky grimaces, and reluctantly points out: "This whole thing of you lookin' out for me only works if someone's looking out for you and all you got right now is me."

"Yeah, but now I'm going to feel weird about it if the peanut gallery is going to be sharing their commentary," Tony says. Sure, he's known about Bucky's hallucinations since the first one showed up during the BARF sessions; for a while, they'd thought there had been some kind of glitch in the system somewhere, until Bucky owned up to the 'ghosts.' He'd just never thought of it from Bucky's point of view of constantly having a audience heckling him. "Well," he amends, arching his brows because now that he's put it _that_ way: "that's not really all _that_ different from the paps."

Bucky ducks his head with a laugh, and of all miracles, it actually _sounds_ like a laugh. It's not - entirely unpleasant, even though there's a dry, deprecating edge to it. With a bit more practice, he might start blending into the rest of the humans. "If that's what your paparazzi are like, I don't want anything to do with the PR work."

"It's not anyone's idea of a good time," he agrees.

Of course, depending on what happened when Bucky is declared legally competent, he might not have a choice. Tony's original plan had been to get him declared incompetent and convince the relevant people to assign guardianship to Rogers, once Rogers' own legal SNAFU was… dealt with.

Having seen Rogers and Bucky interact at the Compound, and having gotten to actually _know_ Bucky - well, having him declared incompetent seems like a bad idea. Which means they'll eventually have to risk him at the trials, and hope that the best lawyer that Tony can buy will be able to suitably argue his case and the Judge and Jury aren't compromised themselves.

"Alright, Tony," Bucky says, "tell me how you think we're going to make this work."

Tony straightens in the chair, clapping his hands. "Well. I'm glad you asked."

It turns out that the reason Bucky is so easy about going along with Tony's declared plan of sharing the cot is because he probably did the math in his head and had already decided that there was no way two fully grown men are going to fit on it - especially when one of them is a super soldier.

Jokes on him, though. Tony and Rhodey have been disrespecting common sense and the more mundane aspects of physics for years now. He's already done his own type of math on the subject. It never would have worked if Bucky had been well fed, honestly - a few weeks on a starvation diet have trimmed off pounds of muscle and completely decimated his already meager fat reserves. Tony had already accounted for that days ago when he first noticed that super soldier metabolisms considered their meals to be starvation rations.

Bucky, turned on his side, is just thin enough to fit around Tony's body without too much forced contact if Tony lays on his back. The cot tips them in toward the middle, and the frame creaks threateningly a few times, but holds.

"Don't think I'll be getting any sleep with this thing tick-tocking in my ear," Bucky observes carefully from where his head is resting half in the dip between Tony's chest and shoulder.

Tony grunts around the screwdriver in his mouth, more concerned with reaching over and around Bucky's shoulder to get to the left arm and manipulate the plates open. It's slung across his waist for easy access, which is far from a perfect solution - Tony's running the risk of getting a pretty bad crick like this, even with all the jackets and the pathetically flat pad that has been masquerading as a pillow jammed behind his back, and it's definitely not the best angle to work on the arm from, but it's the most workable solution that Tony was able to think up between lurking around the outside of the base and arriving back at the room.

Plucking the screwdriver from his mouth as the arm opens up, he says, "tell it to my bruises. You know, you're an unpleasantly _angular_ mattress." Bucky might as well have left his belt on, given the way the sharp crook of his hip bones were digging into Tony.

"Yeah, but it's your clever plan," Bucky says, unconcerned and unimpressed: _you have no one to blame but yourself._ As if he's not part of this particular jenga configuration. Then, consideringly: "guess I could kiss it better."

Well, Tony more or less invited that one. On second thought, that's even one of the tamer things that Bucky could have said to that. Rarely has it been so obvious that Tony's losing his touch as this moment. It's not the first time that Tony thinks, aggrieved: _if I were ten years younger -_

If he were ten year younger, neither Rogers nor Bucky would have left that bunker in Siberia. So, you know. Moot point.

"Maybe the time to smart off to the guy who fixes your stupid arm isn't the time when he's wrist deep," Tony mutters blandly, although he's starting to suspect that Bucky flirts under pressure. That would explain - so much. Too bad Tony himself had always been more prone to sarcasm - people are more inclined to punch someone being sarcastic.

Speaking of the arm, it's more or less exactly what he expected to find when he finally noticed that Bucky hadn't just been using it sparing, but avoiding the use of it. If the nerve receptors were still attached, he'd probably be in some pain - not unlike a muscle cramp, Tony thinks. Not that it would really slow Bucky down. If there's one thing Tony's learned about Bucky, it's that he's more stubborn than his body is really prepared to handle, serum or no.

It's actually impossible to tell how long Tony spends fiddling around with the arm's internal workings before he's satisfied, but it's probably much longer than just two and a half minutes. His patches are holding up as best they can considering what he has to work with, but it's just not good enough. If Bucky allows him to build a new arm, he'll definitely work more redundancies in. Also maybe get in touch with T'Challa's men, see if they can come up with a noninvasive way to tap Bucky's nervous system better - instead of consciously activating the plates for additional density during a punch, if Bucky can increase the density before being struck as if with reflex, then Rogers' shield probably wouldn't be able to punch through it again.

 _'Broke your boy's arm,'_ he'd said, but not a second time. Not if Tony can help it.

It's only as he's setting the arms to rights and Bucky stirs that he realizes that he's actually been playing pillow to a dozing super soldier. Which only goes to prove just how much Bucky obviously needs the sleep in the first place, because his previous points were all extremely valid, and thus: Bucky automatically stirring to exit the cot barely awake is very counterproductive to Tony's end goal. Tony's legs press down, trapping Bucky's thighs to the cot. The way he'd tucked his feet under the zig-zag of the man's calves form quite the effective trap.

Because super soldiers react so well to traps.

Tony allows himself one split second to be stunned and panicked at his own reflexes as almost two hundred pounds of learning killing machine activate around all the soft squishy bits that are Tony Stark minus his armor. For all that Bucky is actually very much made of flesh and bone and not titanium-gold alloy, it feels eerily and unsettlingly similar: an implacable force locking around his frame, thankfully without further struggle that would have either tossed both of them off the cot or broken the straining frame beneath them. Tony's heart thumps erratically in his chest, but not too fast - not too fast. The normal shot of adrenaline he gets every time he suits up.

It takes another few seconds for Bucky to shift his head - not enough to look up, but as though he's assessing just what it is, exactly, that's beneath his head. "Where am I?" he rasps after a moment, holding carefully still and sounding entirely too much like death. Not Tony's, but Bucky's. So: sleep. Yeah. Bucky's definitely not been doing it. Maybe not since he's gotten to the past. That's definitely not the best case scenario.

"A cheerful little cell in the year 1943, with yours truly, man of the future. That's Tony Stark, in case none of this is ringing any bells for you," Tony says, the tension slowly spooling out of his spine. It's fine. It's all good. No one's going to hurt him. Bucky's even mostly lucid, and feeling less and less like a machine by the second.

"What," Bucky says, and then, "Oh," and: "Fuck."

"Bells have been rung," he assumes. Admittedly, Tony had failed to consider that maybe the biggest reason why Bucky had been avoiding sleeping was because he found the waking hours disorienting enough without the added confusion of waking up without recognizing anything. That's - actually downright terrifying, honestly. Tony's managed to forget what his room looks like plenty of times upon first waking up, and - yeah, no.

"You're done with the arm?" Bucky asks, moving like his bones are broken glass and his head is about to split open, trying once again to withdraw from the cot. Which isn't acceptable, just plain and simple. Look, there's very little that Tony can do in this situation for Bucky, but this - this he can.

Feeling mildly exasperated with himself, he puts more pressure on Bucky's thighs and grabs at his left wrist before it can go anywhere. The right arm is crammed into the small gap of space created by the jackets and the pillow, where Tony won't cut off the circulation. He intentionally curves his body to lay on it heavily.

"Ah - ah - ah," Tony chides as Bucky comes to a puzzled stop. "Done with the arm. Not done with you."

Bucky peers up at him belligerently. He looks worse off for the nap - or more correctly: being woken up from it. Somehow without even tossing and turning, Bucky looks rumpled: softer for having just woken up, with a crease in his cheek from Tony's shirt and a vaguely murderous furrow to his brow. Because this is Tony's life now, his faulty fear response coos at the learning murder machine glowering at him.

And people wonder why he is the way he is.

"Alright, no, I don't want to look at your face, put it away. Go back to sleep," he says. Belatedly remembering that he's part of this, he pauses to consider the situation, and adds: "as a matter of fact, me, too. I'm going to sleep. It's only fair. Look, I'll be here the entire time. Wouldn't be able to leave without tipping you off, anyway. Literally, in this case. Sounds reasonable? Sounds reasonable."

It clearly sounds like lunacy to Bucky, judging by the painfully puzzled look he has going on there, but at least there seems to be some cognition and intelligence entering the equation now, instead of just instinct and teeth. Tony's probably pretty lucky Bucky likes him so much. "What, with me?" he questions doubtfully.

"No," Tony drawls, "with some other brainwashed assassin with a flashy metal arm."

"Fuck off, Stark," Bucky says rudely, so someone isn't a morning person. Or really, really doesn't appreciate how a short, shallow nap has only worsened their sleep deprivation symptoms; either way, really. "It's a legitimate question with how your heart's going."

"Yeah, it does that, you're not special. It's called having an undiagnosed anxiety disorder my entire life," Tony says dryly. He'd never really taken notice of it, figuring that everyone felt the same way; it was why they invented alcohol, he'd reasoned, and he'd just failed to cope with it as well as everyone else did. Finding out otherwise had been a rude surprise. "Or at least it _was_ undiagnosed up until a few years ago when everyone suddenly got all worried about the mental health of the people trying to save the world, for some awful reason."

Bucky blinks heavily and then says, "Sucks to be you."

Tony cracks up, because what the fuck. What kind of pot and kettle situation is this? He has a guy who was put on ice on and off for seventy goddamned years, _literally tortured_ beyond what any baseline human body would have been able to withstand, and certainly that and come out sane, or at least not a psychopath, telling him it sucks to be him over his own faulty fear response because his head tells him that just being honest with Pepper or Rhodey can easily rank about the same as flying an untested suit of armor high enough to ice it over.

He almost chokes on his laugher when Bucky's metal hand closes around his hip and tugs him down from where he's reclining on the mound of jackets. Bucky twists next to him, much less a machine, and manages to smush his face into Tony's chest. The heavy weight of his metal arm mostly rests on the cot between Tony's ribs and his right arm, which automatic shifts to rest over the cool metal plates of Bucky's shoulder.

"Oh," he says, "okay. Alright. We can just - alright. This is - you know, that can't be comfortable." He's getting a crick just contemplating the way Bucky's twisted both his back and his hips to accommodate his chosen position.

Bucky grumbles something that could be a very muffled 'shut up and go to sleep.' He has, at least, seemed to get the message that Tony's ribs are not something that should be carelessly have weight put on them, anyway. Tony's more kind of shocked silent that the Winter Soldier is a cuddlemonster.

Alright, whatever. Tony will just. Count electric sheep or something. He's tired himself, has been for weeks now, between the usual reasons and the - well. Unpleasant dreams he's been having thanks to all the happy fun things being in the past brings up. Very, very few nightmares about his parents, so that's something. A little surprising, honestly, what with Howard, but still. For once in his life, Tony's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

… Bucky is kind of weirdly, hideously comfortable, actually. Even the arm. Tony's had enough nightmares about it - not this one, of course, but its predecessor. The one that Tony tore apart with hot flame and wrenches, equally careless as careful. It wasn't until Doctor Julian had raised the subject with Tony that he'd even considered that the arm was anything other than HYDRA's tool and leash to Bucky. It wasn't until he brought it up with Bucky that he saw how much more than that it was - although, yes, that, too.

Now it's something he's made with his own hands. For all that it resembles the HYDRA monstrocity, his fingers have touched every last millimeter of every component that went into building it - he knows its workings as well as his suits. It's just as familiar.

Tapping his fingers over the plates, Tony says, "you know what would give me a lot of nightmares? If this thing was interacting with your latent programming in ways sane people would find alarming."

It's a good, rational concern, although one that Tony probably should have brought up earlier. Bucky doesn't seem to agree, given the annoyed groan he gives. "You're not my handler, Stark," he says, muffled; the words feel like the vibrate through the fragile bones of his ribs.

The surge of relief that goes through Tony is kind of intense. Acute. He'd repeatedly pushed that concern back because while Bucky acted subordinate _enough,_ it was hardly in the same utterly submissive way that he'd been in the video records that Tony had unearthed. Confirmation from the source is - better. Much better.

"Oh, okay, good. Just checking," Tony says lightly, trying to play it off. He probably fails so hard that shit wouldn't fly with fucking Rogers, who can't even acknowledge people other than himself and his Bucky have motivations separate from his own. Bucky mumbles something completely unintelligible and probably not meant for Tony's ears and shifts closer and that's.

Alright: that's nice. There's nothing ambiguous about that. Tony's not entirely convinced on this whole thing - Bucky can't actually afford him, as he's pointed out before, so he definitely isn't sold on it - but this is pretty okay. Obviously another thing that will stay in the past, along with jokes about teaching Howard some manners and weird flirtatious overtures, and probably all talk about _starting over._ Tony knows all about temporary stopgaps until the proper parts become available.

Whatever. The important thing was making it through this by whatever means necessary. There were people waiting on the other side to pick up as many pieces as they had to.

-0-

In the end, there's no real need for Tony to worry about Howard returning and popping into the lab unforwarned. There hadn't been a lot of warning before Howard had to leave in the first place, and no estimate of when he'd be back - Tony is belatedly annoyed with himself for having simply accepted this without pushing for anything, but force of habit, he guesses. But even though there's no real forewarning of Howard's return, Tony's made himself allies.

Not Rogers or his Bucky, of course. The footsteps are too sharp and heavy and precise; not military perfect, but efficient and deliberate. Tony doesn't bother pretending he's not working on his gauntlet when the door opens, because Bucky wouldn't believe it anyway.

"Howard's back," he says. "The plane just got in. 'parently it's a bit nonstandard."

Tony stills, only for a moment. Howard is never in a hurry without a good reason for it - he doesn't get _excited_ about things like normal people do. Well, he does, but he doesn't act like it. Always worried about appearances. Only. Well. That's not quite right, either.

At the door, Bucky grimaces. "Yeah, I kind of thought so, too."

Tony blinks at him for a moment before kicking into gear. It's only a moment's work get the tools put away - some of them get shoved unceremoniously into Tony's tool belt because there's not time to find their drawers and Howard probably won't need them until he can find time to put them back. The gauntlet itself folds back into its compact form, neat and precise. At least his tech holds up to being sent through wormholes without draining their power sources; he's got a few good blasts with it yet before he'll have to replace the supply.

Out in the hallways, it becomes painfully clear that the base is in enough of an uproar that it would have been impossible to miss before long. He would have realized something was up before Howard could come upon him unaware - but the backup: that's nice. It's a nice gesture. He appreciates it, because Tony appreciates gestures.

It's not like he was really getting anything accomplished anyway - he's more or less just been hiding in the lab, at loose ends. He's good, but even _he_ can't keep all the programming necessary to run the machine in his head _and_ invent a method to rip through reality just so - or he could. He definitely _could,_ even with the handicap of not writing anything down, but he'd been planning to put it off until they got more coffee in, what with the rationing and all. He doesn't dare actually write anything down. Writing things down opens up chances for schematics to be copied. They're already pushing it just with what Howard will have learned and memorized while helping Tony.

Or actually, the reason that Tony's been hiding in the lab since that morning is because Rogers has somehow gotten it into his head that he needs to actually, actively _make friends_ with Tony. Which is. No. Laughably no. Never, ever going to happen.

The worst part of it is that the Sergeant seems to be getting a kick out of the whole ordeal. Tony takes back every nice thing he's ever even contemplated thinking about him, nevermind any of the actual nice things he might have said. The dick. It's not like Tony expects for Rogers _not_ to be the Sergeant's priority, but sitting back and enjoying the show involves a certain reckless self-endangerment that Tony thinks they should all address as soon as possible.

It's like Bucky doesn't even _know_ himself, somehow completely unaware of the way the Soldier had looked at him like he was seconds from reaching across the table and throttling him. Tony would have to do something if that happened, and he is not looking forward to trying to talk Bucky down from assassinating himself. Because he will. Tony doesn't doubt for a second that Bucky's capable of clutching his left hand around his younger self's neck and putting him down like the mad dog to which he only bares a passing resemblance.

To be fair, the Sergeant is so biased about Rogers he probably doesn't realize just how bad for Tony's state of mind the entire thing is, and Tony - well, Tony's not exactly eager to tell him. He'll want to know why, and only Thanos could make Tony open that can of worms again.

The Sergeant and the Captain are apparently much less concerned with Howard's return. Bucky and Tony are the only people who approach the hangar to meet Howard that aren't base staff. Tony's not sure he likes the look of intensity that Howard has on his face, speaking sharply to one of the hangar staff. Given Bucky's reaction to the idea of being within eyesight of Howard before, Tony's a little surprised that the Soldier has followed him out - although a glance shows that his face has gone completely unreadable in a way Tony usually saw in the halls of the Compound.

Difficult to know if that's for personal reasons or because he senses something's up, too. Good chances of Bucky making a break for it for an indeterminate amount of time, though, so that's. That's just great.

Howard spots them quickly. He smothers his agitation under a broad smile, arms spreading. It's a variation of Tony's _Well Hello Business Partner I Detest_ gesture - or the other way around. Tony knows Howard too well to take it personally, and somehow manages to do just that anyway.

"I have some wonderful news, Gramps," Howard greets them. He thankfully doesn't actually embrace Tony, aware that it wouldn't be welcomed, dropping his arms to simply grasp Tony's shoulder with a firm grip, giving a little companionable shake. Apparently he chooses to ignore the reflexive grimace that comes too fast and instinctual for Tony to properly contain. "You're one step closer to home!" He looks past Tony, almost vibrating, and says, "round up the boys, would you?"

Bucky takes less than kindly to the order; his expression has slipped right past unreadable and into blank territory - not completely blank, but enough that a nervous jolt of energy rattles Tony's hand. Howard doesn't even seem to notice, already turning to address the frantic assistant trying to keep up with him; he blindly turns his back on them both, orders given, out of sight out of mind, and Bucky looks at Howard consideringly, like he's remembering offering to fisticuffs Howard for Tony's sake and is weighing getting a little personal about it.

It feels like a cascading failure, slowly picking up speed: things are not looking good for them. Bucky's been giving the murderstare to anyone that comes within eight feet and now _especially_ Howard, and as much as Tony isn't a fan of the programming - he went through his own stage of separating man from machine, until the results Bucky got from BARF denied him even that - at the moment he's almost thankful for it. There's a good chance it's the only thing holding Bucky back from even twitching toward violence.

"I hope you realize," Tony mutters under his breath, bouncing restlessly on the balls of his feet, "that killing Howard at this stage would be a bit counter productive."

Bucky holds onto the blank look of intensity for a moment before he glances at Tony and shakes it off, a self-conscious grimace crossing his face. It's not worth the effort. The Sergeant has already proved that to be Bucky's gameface, native to him and not a sign of him reverting to HYDRA' s brainwashing despite Tony's earliest suspicions. "I'm not going to," he says.

"I know." It feels a bit important that Bucky knows that - Tony _knows_ he won't. It's not his fault that his brain and his heart don't always get the message and fuck things up a bit because they're reading false positives.

Bucky ducks his head a bit and then says, "tell me I'm not the only one getting nervous about this."

"Oh, I can certainly do that, and it won't even be a platitude," Tony says easily, shoving his hands into his pockets. When this earns him a curious look, he scoffs. "What? What. You're literally asking the guy who told you about his anxiety disorder. Everything makes me nervous. Although you're not wrong - for a guy who spends most of his time hallucinating people and forgetting which face he's wearing when he wakes up, you have a good head on your shoulders."

"You sure know how to sweet talk a guy," he deadpans, as if that's not exactly what Tony's done, considering the way he's stopped looking one flick of an eyelash from murdering someone. Well. Not sweet talking, exactly, but a good start for it, anyway. Bucky continues, dryly, "I don't suppose that was his 'excited about science' face?"

Tony scoffs, humorless and sharp. "That was definitely not his 'excited about science' face," he says.

"Guess that would be too much to ask."

"With our luck?" Tony wonders, a little incredulous. Honestly, he's a little surprised at how _well_ things have gone so far, all things considered. Neither of them were captured by HYDRA to be tortured or used as science experiments. Howard and the rest have kept their mouths shut, so not even the US government has tried seizing either of them for information regarding the war, even if they think it's just the war as it's playing out on their end. No one has made an honest effort to kill either of them in at least two weeks. Like Bucky himself said: this is almost a vacation.

Bucky takes two seconds to think about that before his face screws up with the sort of belligerent displeasure it calls for. Tony's not sure why he's acting like this is news; he should have considered that their fortunes would combine given… things like hugs and literally sleeping together.

Especially after Tony got woken up this morning by Bucky throwing himself from the cot in a disoriented panic. The last thing Tony should have to deal with first thing in the morning is Sergeant Barnes, even if all it took to straighten that out was asking Bucky who Tony was - the thirty seconds that Bucky seemed convinced Tony was Howard's brother aside.

"Alright, point," Bucky says. His left hand closes over Tony's shoulder for a split second like some kind of aborted pat, sparrow light, as he stirs. "You catch up with Howard; I'll go find the others."

Tony's hand twitches and he grasps it, digging his thumb into the dull, aching meat of his palm where the nerve damage manifests as a bone-deep ache, staring only briefly after Bucky. That was. He resists the urge to reach up to his shoulder. _Alright_ well: this is all too much forlorn lover for Tony's peace of mind, so going to deal with his twitchy young father it is.

Despite the delay, it's not difficult to hunt Howard down; all Tony has to do is stop the occasional staff member and say the man's name, and he gets pointed in the right direction. It's almost as nice as working inside the HQ of Stark Industries. Maybe better in some ways, because the staff don't ogle or harass him about department allowances, despite the fact that he's no longer CEO and Pepper is the one that should have to deal with that. Tony could never tolerate actually working for the military the way Rhodey does, but there might be some level of appeal. Too bad he can't organize SI in a similar way without scaring literally every person with a working brain and some without.

Howard hasn't gone to the lab. Tony isn't exactly surprised to find him in what amounts to a war room, maps hanging on the walls and pockmarked with pins. Howard has pulled one down and has it spread across the wide table at the front of the room - plenty of space for him and a handful of others, plus some officers.

"Good," Howard greets him, glancing up only briefly to see that it's Tony. Gesturing to one of the maps still on the wall, he says, "The ones with red thread are the enemy bases to do with research and development - the HYDRA bases."

Tony barely has to look to check his work. Howard had so loved to show Tony on whatever map was available all the work that the Howling Commandos had done. The only thing Tony has to be sure of is to not pin any bases that haven't been discovered yet. That would be awkward.

"Is your man going to be fit for a fight?" Howard asks.

Tony avoids looking at him by eyeballing the map for a moment longer, triple checking his work while he weighs his responses. He'd drawn some conclusions from the task Howard had given him. "Fit enough," he hedges. A fight will probably launch Bucky directly into his programing, which is - something Tony would prefer to avoid. Bucky might have snapped out of it easily enough when they retrieved him from his Great European Roadtrip of Mass Destruction, but that was weeks ago, and he's only gotten more unstable since.

Howard grunts, hearing the hedging and apparently deeming it a minor issue.

The door opens and a few of the staff and Howard's assistants come in, carting what Tony identifies as battlefront armor and weaponry - including Rogers' shield. Tony feels himself blanch and his stomach bottom out, turning quickly to put his back to it, the assistants, and Howard himself. It's a - stupid, useless response. Rogers hasn't turned it against him since the hangar - Rogers is actually trying to be his friend now, or something, and he's not even putting on his best Bucky Barnes impression to do it. There's no reason for the way his heart is palpitating and the cold sweat breaking out on his skin other than the fact that Tony simply hadn't expected to see it, and now he has to tuck his hand into his pocket or be showing of more tells than he's strictly comfortable with.

Naturally, that's when both Buckys and Rogers come in the door. Tony knows because the Sergeant says, "Shit," like he's never seen his own game face before.

It takes precious seconds for Tony to convince himself to turn and look, despite the urgency of the matter. Both Sergeant and Captain look like the expect the Soldier to immediately move to kill someone, which implies just - spectacular things about Bucky Barnes' method of dealing with people he doesn't like. Rogers steps to put himself between the Soldier and Howard, who is standing around like an idiot and looking vaguely surprised at the disturbance: no self-preservation instincts there, great, everything good about Tony came from his mom, not that it's a huge surprise; the Sergeant has one hand out, the other grasped to his thigh where his knife sits, sheathed.

The Soldier doesn't so much as twitch at all the commotion, gaze remote and calculating as he sweeps the room: Tony, Howard, the guns and armor set out on the counter, Tony, Things One and Two, the Sergeant's knife, Tony, Howard, Tony, the Shield, Tony. To the untrained eye, he looks a microsecond from murdering everyone in the room in the most efficient but painful way possible.

The whole thing takes only seconds, barely even five, and then the Soldier is favoring the Sergeant with a flat, reproachful look. Point. Sergeant Barnes recognizes it, too; training or no, the Soldier still has decades of experience and a weight class on him. He's not even going to be a footnote if the Soldier decides to murder them all; it's just like Bucky to go face to face with a hopeless task, though.

Howard, still seemingly baffled and a bit uncomprehending, says, "Well,then," a bit uncomfortably. "We've had some new intelligence coming in."

No one responds for a few more seconds, and then Rogers reluctantly turns his attention from his Bucky and the Soldier. "What kind of intelligence?"

"Oh, all kinds," Howard says with a dry twist to his mouth. The return to normalcy is loosening his tense shoulders, and he turns to Tony with a curious look. "Have you heard the name or codename 'Mircurio?'"

Tony blinks. "Not in my world, no," he says. "Who or what is Mircurio?'

"Intelligence suggests this person is either a high ranking officer in the Nazi's army, or the wife of one. Well, the wife theory hasn't really gotten a lot of acceptance," he amends, "but to me, I think it has some merit. No high ranking officer would jeopardize their position by providing unprovoked information on their own bases and battle plans. And they'd have to be high ranking. The kind of information they're giving up would be highly classified."

"We're sure it's legitimate?" Rogers asks dubiously.

Howard nods. "That was our first concern, of course," he says, and Tony realizes with mild horror that he's actually _coaching_ Rogers. Well, he'd said as much, hadn't he? "But we've been able to independently confirm several things that this Mircurio informed us of. But that's something for another time." Clapping his hands together, Howard aims a showboating asshole grin at Tony once more. "The way for you to get back home."

Tony smiles back, too thin and too sharp. "So you've said," he says, rocking on his feet: _you're making a lot of promises without a lot of substance and I'm not sold._

Howard's grin narrows, but he's faced harder sells than Tony, bouncing back easily. "I have it on good authority that our 'friends' in HYDRA have been getting up to some very interesting experiments," he says, moving toward the map on the table. He puts it between himself and them, all the better to show off. "Our friends in Intelligence have managed to locate another base we suspect belongs to the Nazis, based on local reports, travel, and supply trains." He comes up with another pin, this one in bright yellow, which he sticks into the map.

"Sokovia?" Tony says blankly.

Howard frowns at him after a second. "Breznia," he says.

"Breznia," he echoes, "right. Sorry. Geography. Not my best subject." He gestures airly, brushing the mistake away with the whimsy of the rich and famous, smiling.

To be fair, Sokovia has been Sokovia for all of Tony's adult life, and until Ultron, hadn't really made any global or historical waves as far as anyone from the States would be concerned. Well, except the part where Tony's weapons had been sold under the table to the local terrorists, who has probably been HYDRA or supported by HYDRA all along, who incidentally were also experimenting on humans, but who was counting?

The fact that there's _already_ a HYDRA base there doing 'interesting experiments' is doing very little for Tony's peace of mind.

"So," he adds, staring down at the map, and the yellow pin stuck into it, "HYDRA'S been doing experiments in Breznia, huh."

"Yes," Howard agrees. "Ones we think could be behind your presence here."

A logical conclusion, Tony thinks. He owned up to the 'enemy' being the one behind the machine in the first place - and technically it is related to HYDRA. If not directly, then inspired by them anyway: thus Bucky's part in this. Secondly, the end location. He's been contemplating that their destination may not have been an accident, except there's so much of that which doesn't add up. Anyone who could build a fucking time machine had to know that handing the Winter Soldier over to HYDRA alone wouldn't do any good at all.

"It was a mission. Not Breznia. Could be related," he allows, folding his arms. "They're trying to rip holes in reality?"

"Trying to summon demons," Howard says dryly, and then shrugs. "Or whatever - _astral beings_ they're convinced mankind has mistaken as demons and angels."

"What could possibly go wrong with that," Tony says flatly, never so completely unimpressed in his life. The only worse thing would be if they were trying to summon the Chitauri - which: granted, may actually be exactly what they're doing. They don't deserve wormhole building devices. Tony's going to enjoy taking their toys away.

"Are you sure we can trust something HYDRA built?" Rogers asks suspiciously.

Tony would like to fall back on the old technophobic excuse, but that's a legitimate question. Fortunately, he has a legitimate answer. "Anything they can build, I can build better," he says. Especially if it means getting back where - _when_ \- he and Bucky belong. "Probably would have to, anyway. Unless they have some real brilliant minds, they haven't perfected it. I can."

"Well, at least we're not hurting for confidence," Rogers says wryly. He looks to Howard. "What's this thing going to look like?"

"We don't know for certain, but we can make some educated guesses," Howard says, straightening.

"Well, it's a device that punches through reality," Tony says impatiently, "pretty sure I'll recognize it when I see it." And it's not like Howard would have blueprints or anything, or else fetching the device itself wouldn't be necessary. Prepping them by describing what they might think it'll look like will just contaminate their preconceptions.

Howard blinks at him, and then smirks incredulously. "I'm sure you would, but they have to have an idea of what they're looking for before they can bring it home."

 _Oh,_ okay. Tony gets what's going on here, a smile that barely feels like one slicing his mouth open. He gives himself a second to try to soften the urge to snarl, ducking his head for a moment and scuffing his boot. "Which is kind of unnecessary since I'm going with them, isn't it?" he asks, polite, understated, mild.

No one answers him for a second until the Sergeant decides that it's up to him to be the voice of reason. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," he says with the skillful lightness and caution of a man accustomed to managing other people's pride. "If we're talking about raiding another HYDRA base, things are gonna get a bit crazy. It's enough to disoriet anyone."

Too bad for Sergeant Barnes, Tony's grew up at Obie's knee. He sounds just enough like Obie to set Tony's teeth on edge.

Before Tony can say something or doing anything he'll regret, the Soldier appears at his elbow and thumps one of the rifles he'd scavenged on the table in front of Tony. No one startles despite how tense they all are, their attention diverted to the Soldier as he takes the other rifle in his hands and begins to disassemble it with mechanical efficiency.

"No offense," Bucky says, mild and smooth as if he hasn't just interrupted the beginnings of a very loud argument, "but it seems like to me when you have an expert on hand, you send the expert."

The Sergeant huffs, glancing at Rogers: _can you believe this guy?_ Rogers definitely believes 'this guy' and seems to find it deeply entertaining that Bucky is having a problem with this kind of behavior now that it's coming from outside the house. Tony would find that exchange charming if his left hand weren't clenched so tightly in his pocket and he could barely tolerate looking at anyone here, eyes focused with teeth gritting determination on the rifle coming apart in the Soldier's hands.

"Sergeant Barnes has a point," Howard says, calm, even, reasonable. Tony wants to sock him so hard his dumb mustache gets knocked off. "You did fine during the retrieval a few weeks ago, but your friend had already scattered the enemy and the base was in ruins."

"I'm sorry," Tony says, clipped, "are you - are you suggesting we actually send these two - who wouldn't know the internal workings of a radio from an airplane - to retrieve the extremely delicate experimental equipment that I need to get us home?"

"Well, I was intending to send your man with them," Howard says.

Howard has spent exactly zero seconds around Bucky to know that sending him off across the goddamned ocean in the company of Thing One and Thing Two is probably the worst idea anyone has ever had. Bucky shouldn't even leave the _base._ It's one thing for him to go road tripping across a Nazi occupied Europe, attacking HYDRA, and another to expect him to - _ugh._

"That's negligence. He's -" He turns to Bucky, who is carefully inspecting the internal workings of his rifle. "Are you hearing this? It's criminal negligence is what it is."

"Pretty sure I can survive without you," Bucky says dryly, not looking up

"That is - not even close to being the concern here," Tony says, even as he pulls up short. Well, they've apparently hit the limit of how much of Tony that Bucky's willing to tolerate - of course there's a limit. Tony can _always_ find the limit. He's not sure why it's always such a rude surprise every time. He should be used to it.

At least Bucky hasn't tried to break his face the way he does to Rogers. That's something, at least.

"I mean, it's a concern," Tony amends, a bit rattled as he reaches for the rifle on the table in front of him. It's not the same model as the one Bucky has, but it's - ugh. What even is this? It takes him a few seconds of turning it over in his hands before his brain begins to pull it apart, and his hands follow suit. "Of course it's a concern. No one said it wasn't. Did someone say that? Who said it? Because I certainly don't recall saying that. How'd we even get on this subject? The point was that _I_ need to go along on this exciting and exotic European mission destination because _I_ will know what it is we're looking for." His fingers find minor imperfections in the straight lines of the rifle - manufacturer errors from faulty equipment, use- and heat-induced weaknesses, wear and tear. It somehow feels like a personal affront.

The rifle reassembles faster in his hands than it came apart, already familiar for all its flaws. Hefting it up to his shoulder, he peers down the barrel, lines up the sights, exhales, and strokes the trigger. There's a slight catch in the mechanism as the gun clicks, chambers empty - nothing enough to cause problems now, but indicative of problems down the line.

"Alright, fine," Tony says, disgusted, as he lowers the rifle and turns it over in his hands again, eyeing. "Color me impressed. If you're getting that kind of accuracy out of an antique like this, you're a better marksman than I gave you credit for." Not that he didn't already know that, based entirely off the files he'd retrieved about the Winter Soldier, but - well, reading data on a screen or piece of paper and seeing evidence of it are two totally different things, even for a guy like Tony.

"That 'antique,'" Howard says, as Tony is handing the rifle off, "is one of the best weapons on the warfront right now."

It takes a few seconds to register because firearms have never been Tony's favorite, he doesn't _care,_ they're dull and uninspired and there are only so many ways you can launch a bullet from a chamber without turning it into a micro missile launcher - and then Tony blinks at Howard, because that's - not. Great. "What, really," he demands incredulously, looking to Bucky.

The arch, knowing look on Bucky's face as he takes the gun off Tony's hands says it all without a single word necessary.

Alright, again, in Tony's defense - firearms are _boring,_ and WWII is kind of a dicey topic for him, for all that he played it up for the guys still starry eyed over Howard's part in it. Sure, he'd designed handguns and rifles in both semi-automatic and full auto styles - because they'd _asked_ him to, Obie had _asked_ him to - but it hadn't been a passion project. Tony's just. Very good at what he does. He'd learned a lot about firearms, just not what models were current to what wars. It hadn't been necessary to rip them to pieces and salvaged what worked and discard what didn't, and the early days of firearms were some of the less inspired. The Generals had always been more interested in Tony's bombs.

He'd just assumed, given the state of the thing, that the rifle that Bucky had set in front of him was one of the junky ones he'd salvaged while tearing HYDRA a new one. This is - kind of bad. Unfortunately.

"Well, alright then," he says, giving himself a little shake - he can't look at Howard or Sergeant Barnes, that'll give away that he's checking their reactions, so he glances at Rogers to see how Rogers feels about it. Which is baffled, and a totally useless reaction. Great. Tony stuffs his hands into his pockets. "I'm a little tired. A nap would be great." Turning, he skulks away from the table; better just to keep his mouth shut at this rate. He hasn't fucked up this badly or consistently in a long time.

"All that aside," Bucky says, "you want us to go into enemy territory and make off with their tech? Then we need Tony with us. Doing otherwise is just asking for trouble."

"You surprise me, Barnes," Howard says. "I would have thought you'd be more reasonable about your friend's safety. Especially since he's the one maintaining that arm of yours."

"Must've picked up some bad habits," he says flatly, then disregards Howard, turning to Things One and Two. "Tony won't slow us down. You know that."

"I don't," Rogers points out, then glances past Bucky at Tony. "But if you say it's worth it, then I believe you."

"Come on, Steve," the Sergeant objects.

"He wants to come, and there's good reason to bring him," Rogers says reasonably. "Besides, I don't think your brother will let anything bad happen to him."

"A lot can happen on the battlefield that not even you or him can stop," Bucky points out grimly, glancing pointedly at his older self. Well, that's a handy way of referring to him. Tony belatedly remembers that James Barnes _does_ have siblings, somewhere, so it might not even be that weird.

Tony leaves them to their arguing about whether or not he's fit for the field. He has the Soldier and Rogers on his side already, which is weird enough, but it does swing the vote hard in his favor. Instead, he turns to one of the maps that Howard has on the wall, glancing over the pinwork. At a single glance, he can tell which colors mean. He's no WWII history buff - despite the stories Howard regaled him with, memorizing facts and dates was never a thing he put much importance on - but Tony knows enough about how WWII changed the face of modern warfare to make educated guesses from the information he has to work with. He can guess which colors indicate known hostile bases, and which colors are each army. There's a color for the raided bases. Another he can only guess at - their own bases that have been overrun, maybe. There are a scattering of unmarked pins as well.

Tony squints. He pulls back slightly to get a wider view of the map - they're not all that noticeable in the riot of colors and forest of other pins until about a meter away, but now that he's seen them, his brain doesn't allow him to unsee them. Things like this - clutter, noise, patterns that don't actually exist - are the bane of Tony's existence. His brain hyper focuses. Fixates. He struggles most with trying to disregard pieces of detail or data that are irrelevant. That's why he programmed his displays the way he had; the function that would weed out extraneous details was the first thing he wrote into them.

His brain nags and suggests a pattern in a forest of silver points. Ignoring it won't be easy.

"Alright!" Howard says loudly, throwing his hands up, disgusted. "Alright, fine. Take Anthony with you. It's on your head if something happens and the only man capable of getting you back to your world ends up dead."

Well, that's reason enough to drop the matter if the pins for the moment, anyway. Tony turns, seeing both Howard and Sergeant Barnes looking unhappy about this turn of events. Rogers has his arms crossed with that particularly mulish angle to his jaw - the one Tony always wants to lay into with a gauntleted fist. The Soldier is too busy suiting up to care, apparently.

"Thank you," Tony says, not even trying to sound particularly gracious about it. "Now that _that's_ out of the way, how do you suppose we get into Breznia to raid this base in the first place?"

"Similar to the way we did it last time," Howard says, sticking his hands into his pockets. If there was one thing that Tony could say about him, it was that Howard always bounced back from disappointment and a loss quickly. "My plane is unmarked. Better deniability for America, you see. There's a location not far from the facility that we can land and access it from. They're the ones that gave us the intel in the first place. The facility receives supplies and staff through the town at all hours of the day and night. Getting a small strike force inside will be the easy part."

"And we're just going to fly into town and expect HYDRA to let us in because we knocked politely," Tony says dryly.

"Not everyone uses three levels of employee authentication," Bucky says, strapping the rifle across his back. "I'll make it believable."

Everyone knows Stark Industries has tight security these days - something Tony should have implemented the first time they were infiltrated by SHIELD but hadn't gotten around to until the fall of HYDRA. But that third level of authentication hadn't come in until after the schism. Staring at Bucky, annoyed and appalled, Tony says, "Do I even want to know how you know that?"

Apparently it's something to be coy about, given the corner-of-his-eye way Bucky glances at him, looking like nothing less than something too clever and too feral to reason with. "Probably not," he says. So that's.

Tony has a lot of things he'd like to say about that, none of which are anything he _should_ while the peanut gallery is present and treating this like prime time entertainment. "Just _reaching_ here," he says, carefully biting the edges of his tone into something slightly less threatening. "But would that have anything to do with your healthy respect for Miss Pepper Potts?"

"Let's just say I believe it when you said she killed two men," he says, dry.

" _Allegedly,_ " Tony says strongly, more out of good habit than anything else, because it's not as though anyone here would care to or even could press charges. In either case, he's surprised he hasn't heard about this from Pepper before, and Bucky has no room to talk about surviving without Tony if he's breaking into _Stark Industries._

"Allegedly," Bucky agrees easily.

"Who is Pepper Potts?" Rogers asks curiously. Tony turns to glower at him because Rogers has been prodding into all kinds of places he's unwelcomed these last few days; he fully expects Howard to be annoyed with how sidetracked the conversation has gotten.

Except Howard doesn't look annoyed at all, just sharply interested, his arms folded across his chest and eyeballing Tony curiously. Which. Great. Granted, Tony's made efforts not to be forthcoming about things, figuring that Howard would never care enough to really notice. Whether that's true or not, he's certainly noticed _now._

Tony crosses his own arms, distinctly uncomfortable. Giving Rogers a pointed look, he says, "putting it mildly, she's a shining light of justice in an imperfect world."

That's - that's a familiar look on Rogers' face, come to think of it. So apparently Captain Jackass of the Future had at least understood Tony this well. It sours his stomach and makes his teeth ache.

"Who… kills people," Sergeant Barnes says skeptically, brow arched. It's almost a welcome interruption, except Tony is annoyed with him at the moment, considering his bright ideas over the last two days.

"Yeah, let's not cast stones here," Tony says, scrunching his nose. Bucky's too smart to miss the fact that he's someone's Pepper Potts, or so Tony thought, and yet here they are.

Rogers is the one to nod and switch gears, straightening. "We'll have to get you gear," he says to Tony. Dipping his head toward Tony's hands, he says, "You have some familiarity with firearms. What model do you need?"

Well. It's a large step up from the mission to retrieve the Winter Soldier, wearing nothing but the bare uniform and a belt full of tools that he'd managed to nick off Howard's reserve. "Trust me," Tony says with a wry smirk, "you don't want me with a gun in my hands. I have something much better waiting for me back in the lab."

"Something that makes our best gun look like an antique?" Howard says with a funny little twist to his mouth, deceptively mild for how sharp his eyes are.

Flattening his mouth, Tony splays his hands wide like he's dealing with Stark Industries' board of directors. "Look," he says, "I'm sorry for what I said about the gun. It's your gun? It's a nice gun. A good gun. It's just - you know: _bullets._ " He grimaces like the entire thing physically pains him, banking on a man who dreamed up flying cars in the 1940s to be similarly bored with the science of projectiles.

It's a good gamble: the sharply interested look on Howard's face dulls. "Well, if you have a solution, I'm all ears."

"If I had a solution, I'd be billionaire," Tony says blithely. Sure, the gear that Stark Industries had provided to the military had sold well, but the big bucks had always come from the missiles he designed. As soon as warfare became aware of _nukes,_ the foot soldiers on the ground would matter so much less to other countries compared to the arsenal in missile silos across the nation. And the ones that could be fired from planes, and boats. And other awful things.

"That's the dream," Howard says dryly, visibly moving on to other topics. "Alright, suit up men. We have a very narrow opening to take advantage of. Let's try to minimize the number of things going wrong."

Well, you know what they say: plans rarely survive contact with the enemy.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tony:** I'm definitely coming with you  
>  **Bucky:** I don't need you to hold my hand  
>  **Tony:** w - wow, okay. That's. Okay.  
>  **Bucky:** [grabbing Tony's hand] anyway, Tony's coming with us right now immediately-
> 
> 'intel' didn't really have an upswing until the 1960s (although it had been used before) so I'm crediting that to Howard. [shrug] 
> 
> me and my 'sokovia used to be breznia' is not anything you'd find in a wiki because that's just me loosely basing fiction on the real life 20th century history of the czech republic, aka czechia. it makes more sense to me that HYDRA showed up early to the game and just .... never left and has been screwing over the sokovian people ever since. thus any references to helmut zemo being familiar with how HYDRA works in the buckypov coda.
> 
> Speaking of buckypov, I made a brief attempt at writing current buckypov and only got like [a hundred words in](https://justavengeit.tumblr.com/post/170505132418/it-doesnt-surprise-bucky-one-bit-that-hes) before spooking myself. Because Bucky's headspace is just _great._


	9. Intermission: Protocol Baby It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Yeah, I got the message," he says with some difficulty, flexing his jaw so nothing too sharp comes out. "Look, I said I'd get you back home and I will. All the - the sweet talking is a bit unnecessary."_
> 
> _"I haven't been sweet talking you," he says a bit blankly, and Tony risks a look up at his face, and yes, he's forced to believe that Bucky doesn't think so. Which is just. Great. Tony's more pathetic than he thought. They're a pair. Bucky likes being called crazy and Tony is weak to being told he's liked._
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> Before the mission, Bucky and Tony clear the air

Bucky follows him from the war room to the lab because of course he does, that's the kind of life that Tony lives now. An hour or so ago, Tony wouldn't have thought twice about it, since he's been playing security blanket to Bucky Barnes, but after that little incident in the war room, he'd expected otherwise. Well. He'd _hoped_ otherwise, anyway. Because following meant talking.

And if Bucky had his fill of Tony's control freak tendencies, then it wasn't going to be _fun_ talking.

"Aren't you being a little obvious," he bites out.

"Yeah, well, I'm a pretty straight forward guy," Bucky says, which is rich coming from the man that apparently broke into Stark Industries at one point in time for unknown but inevitably nefarious reasons and left none of them the wiser. Actually his whole _making eyes_ thing, too, while Tony's at it.

Thinking so, Tony says, "How are you even wearing pants right now."

"Well," Bucky says, abrupt and cut off.

It's a mistake, but Tony has to look, half thinking that somehow HYDRA had gotten inside the base and had popped Bucky with a pipe to the skull or something. It ends up being 'or something': Bucky looks wrong footed, giving Tony startled calf eyes, because apparently that's a suitable come on when you've been frozen in ice and tortured on and off for seventy years.

Tony ignores the part of him that reflexively wants to wine and dine Bucky and give him nice things because _that_ should not be even in the same general universe as a suitable come on, but the larger part of him is still stung from earlier and annoyed with the full kitted assassin on his heels giving him a lovesick look.

" _From lying,_ " he hisses, and then, firmly turning his back, he adds, "don't look at me like that. Looking at me like that makes me wanna stick my nose where it doesn't belong."

There's no response to that, though Bucky stays on his heels all the way to the lab. Tony's stomach decides the weather around his ankles is pretty nice and decides to stay down there, which is just - great. Great is a good word for it. He's going to verbally rip Bucky's intestines through his nose at this rate. Definitely stockholm syndrome here. He knows better than to get… weird at people just because they're being weird at him. Tony's been known to misread situations. Clearly he's gotten confused somewhere while trying to do the impossible. Trying to rip a hole through reality would confuse anyone.

For a split second, Tony's relieved that Bucky shuts the door to the lab and stays there while Tony goes to the table under which he'd stashed his side project, covered with a bit of dusty tarp, well aware that even if Howard noticed, he wouldn't think twice about it until later. Howard is single minded that way most of the time.

Then Bucky says, "I wasn't trying to drive you off, Tony."

Kneeling beside the table, Tony swivels a bit on the balls of his feet to give the Soldier a jaundiced look. He's flattened himself to the wall beside the door, his hands splayed out on the way on either side of him and watching  Tony warily through lanks of his hair. It's more beaten stray than feral savage, which hurray for sleeping, he guesses.

There's no dignifying that with a response. He turns back and pulls the tarp off it, checking the canvas backpack over. Tony had suckered one of the commandos out of their packs with a play of playing cards and stuffed the battery and cables inside. Although the chances of anyone coming in and messing with it is low at best, Tony still makes sure that everything has been undisturbed and it should work the way he tested it before.

"Listen, I can tell when I've crossed a line," Tony says, so apparently he _is_ going to dignify it, because of course he is, Tony can't leave well enough alone and if he thinks there's a challenge, he's going to take it. Even if there isn't.

"I don't trust Howard," Bucky says bluntly.

Tony nearly clips his head on the edge of the table. Ducking out from under it, dragging the pack with him, he lifts it up and thumps it down on the table before pulling himself to his feet. "You what?" he asks, turning a sharp look on Bucky. There's joking about shoving Howard in a locker and then there's treating Howard like that asshole, Thaddeus Ross. At least Howard had never tried to trap any of Tony's girlfriends in military bunkers and experimented on them.

Tony would have killed him if he had. He's not as good of a person as Betty Ross.

"You didn't cross a line," Bucky clarifies, watching him with pale, haunted eyes. "But I'm not in any hurry to let Howard know what kind of mess I am."

"Oh." Oh, yes. Yeah, Tony had crossed a line. He'd taken for granted that anyone could look at Bucky and see what a wreck he was, and then it was Things One and Two who had spent weeks with the Soldier and _had_ to have figured it out, and it was Howard, who was Tony's own father no matter how young he is right now, and the kind of pragmatic person who would be willing to let Tony take the fall for all of his awful decisions, such as trusting his back to brainwashed assassins, so long as it didn't get Tony _killed._

But that's probably not how Howard sees the situation.

Bucky huffs, but he's kind enough not to actually say anything about it.

"Alright," Tony says, slinging the pack onto his shoulders. It's so beat to hell that it only has one strap now, and Tony wears it like a sling pack, letting the heavy weight of it's contents rest against his lower back. Gripping the strap in both hands, he says, "and why are we not trusting Howard? I mean. Understandable. I know why _I_ don't trust Howard. Why don't _you_ trust Howard?"

Bucky gives him a look like he's being intentionally obtuse. "Some of it's you," he says, which, yeah, naturally. Tony is playing security blanket, and there's stockholm syndrome, and they're two allies in a base full of soldiers who could easily turn into their enemies at a moment's notice. That's going to cause bleedover. "But I dunno," he adds, "there's something about him I just don't like."

"Well, you're not _dumb,_ " Tony says. "Like your younger, more volatile self pointed out, Howard isn't great with people who don't function the way he expects. That includes incredibly traumatized soldiers, apparently."

No one should be stupid enough to think anyone with the Soldier's background would react favorably to Howard's particular brand of 'I know best.' Tony grew up with it and not even he could get along with it.

Bucky doesn't look entirely satisfied with that explanation, but neither does he look willing to argue about it. "Hey, Tony," he says as Tony comes abreast on his way out the door. He reached out across Tony and it's a mutual decision that the metal hand settles lighter-than-feathers on Tony's hip.

A soft flush of warmth tips Tony up on his toes as he comes to a sudden stop, bending him over Bucky's wrist with inertia. "What," he says flatly, letting go if the pack's strap with one hand and resting it on Bucky's forearm. He thinks that only because his hand is the firmest point of contact between them that he doesn't do anything a bit dramatic.

"I was serious when I said I wasn't trying to drive you off," Bucky says, his head ducked in toward Tony. He doesn't crowd. He _could_ crowd. Bucky is definitely large enough and dangerous enough to crowd Tony, but he's sunk into himself, slouching carefully as not to loom.

Every inch of his skin is humming with the visceral sense memory of being used as an oversized teddy bear. His bones feel strange and hollow and hungry.

"Yeah, I got the message," he says with some difficulty, flexing his jaw so nothing too sharp comes out. "Look, I said I'd get you back home and I will. All the - the sweet talking is a bit unnecessary."

"I haven't been sweet talking you," he says a bit blankly, and Tony risks a look up at his face, and yes, he's forced to believe that Bucky doesn't think so. Which is just. Great. Tony's more pathetic than he thought. They're a pair. Bucky likes being called crazy and Tony is weak to being told he's liked. "I don't think I remember how," Bucky admits easily, even as his expression sharpens with interest over whatever it is he's reading on Tony's face, and he adds, "but I could see what I do remember."

"Oh my god," Tony complains under his breath, looking away. He's annoyed at just how much he _likes_ that sharp interested look, and even more annoyed by the fact that when Bucky finally settles his palm around his hip, it only takes the slightest bit of additional pressure to pull him in closer. "We are kind of prepping for a mission to a HYDRA base," Tony says, "and I might be a little rusty on protocol here, but I'm pretty sure there's no step that-" With the hand not holding onto his pack's strap, he gestures to encompass everything that's going on right here.

"Yeah, I don't know about you, but I'm not going into a HYDRA base with things in the air," Bucky says dryly, "and especially not over something I did. My head's gonna be enough of a mess going in there without worrying about what's going through _your_ head."

"You're not _that_ distracting," he says, sharp and mean.

The look Bucky gives him is exhausted but steady and implacable. "I haven't exactly tried to be, yet," he says.

Well, _fuck._ Considering Tony has actually been distracted since the first time he saw Bucky Fucking Barnes' face in a history book and it's only gotten worse since he _met_ Bucky, that's - not great.

"Alright, fine," Tony says, not really any more calm given just how little he wants to have this conversation. "You want to know what is - _churning_ through my head right now? I think the two of us have been developing a very fancy and very advanced case of stockholm syndrome, because face it: neither of us could stand the other previous to getting stranded here in the past together."

It doesn't get dismissed out of hand. Bucky frowns, casting his gaze to the side, either thinking it over or listening to his own private peanut gallery, whichever, it doesn't really matter. It shouldn't matter. It does matter. It  makes something tight and hard in his chest loosen, just a little bit. Not enough to fix it - it won't ever _fix_ \- but enough that it might last a little longer before blowing out messily.

"Well, I can't say it's not," Bucky says, meeting his eyes, "but if it is, I've been working on it since Siberia."

He jerks as something wild and furious jars through him, gripping the metal forearm beneath his hand, feeling the brief imprint of fingers on his hip - just enough to steady him. Siberia again. It's _always_ Siberia. He barely swallows down the banked and smoldering coals.

"When we get home," Tony says calmly, "you're climbing in the BARF system. I want to see this hallucination of yours that you think is so great."

"Like hell I am," he disagrees with a look askance. "You'd figure out some way to get in my head and kill 'em."

"Oh, come on."

"Come on, yourself," Bucky says. "It's not about him. I've been trying to get in your good graces since you were waiting when I got off that plane onto American soil again."

"Funny, I wasn't trying to make an impression," he says flippantly. The preparations he made stand out more in his memory than Bucky's arrival. Thirty seconds of heart pounding fury and terror hadn't made as lasting of an impression as watching security footage of the Winter Soldier make disoriented gambles at being Bucky Barnes or the endless hours Bucky spent playing dead instead of bonding with his team like a real boy.

"You're not really the kind of guy that doesn't make an impression," he informs Tony dryly, tugging lightly.

Tony could ignore it, shove the arm away the way he's half braced to as it is, and go about his business. The touch is still so careful that it would be easy to not just resist, but disregard it outright. He doesn't want to, because more often than not the things that Tony likes are bad for his health and mental stability. Like flying suits of armor, and inviting people in close enough that they have to try hard to _avoid_ stabbing him in the back. It's a bit depressing to think that he hasn't learned anything, so he decides not to think about it at all.

Bucky pulls him to stand with his feet bracketed by his boots, to lean in so that he can fit his right hand into the small of Tony's back, between his shirt and the pack, the left staying where it's been on his hip. "Um," Tony says about the stubble that's scratching his temple, which is a lot less pleasant than all the touching and the body heat, but still. You know. Bucky smells like new gear and harsh soap, familiar after the cot. A fully kitted assassin isn't the most comfortable thing to cuddle up with, and yet.

Well, Tony has always been incredibly weak to physical comfort. It's a bad idea, but he allows himself to be reeled in, to push his head into Bucky's jaw and lean into the warmth. He feels Bucky's hand slide up over the back of his neck, and realizes that Bucky's mimicking the hold that Tony used on him. He can't help the quiet huff he gives, not exactly amused.

"Alright?" Bucky says.

"Yeah, yeah, alright," he says with the sulking, resentful tone of someone outmaneuvered.

The pad of Bucky's thumb is rough where it strokes over the back of his neck, and Tony manfully resists a shudder. Resists giving in completely. If - well. There's a time for letting his guard down, and far away from home isn't it. He's pretty sure that Bucky agrees, honestly.

"You realize it's probably not stockholm syndrome," Bucky points out in a hushed tone into his hair. It's not the quiet rasp of sleep, but it tickles his inner ear, makes his scalp prickle pleasantly. "I know what that's like, and it isn't this."

"Well, that's great for you," Tony mutters, "but you're not the only one that needs to be able to tell the difference."

The arm clicks and grinds as a ripple of tension or readiness goes through the learning murder machine trying to pretend it's a harmless teddy bear. All ten of Bucky's fingers press into his skin, firm but far from bruising, a grip that lingers just a second too long to be a squeeze; something hot twines, heavy and dark and bittersweet, around and through Tony's ribs and presses the air from his lungs.

After a pause, Bucky says, "Um." If it's an effort to loosen his grip, to press the familiar flat metal of his palm against Tony's hipbone instead of digging his fingers in, to flatten his calloused palm over the back of Tony's neck instead of curl his fingers around the back of it, he doesn't let a tremble of it show. The lapse of control only lasted long enough to make itself obvious before the entire mess is shoved hastily under the nearest metaphorical bed, as if Tony doesn't already know very well just how unstable Bucky is.

It's just that _unstable_ doesn't bother him - he eats unstable for breakfast.

For a brief moment, Tony allows his forehead to land against Bucky's chest where his collarbone would be under his kit; a safe distance from the seam between flesh and metal. Then he does his own hasty metaphorical rearranging, recklessly tearing the thing twining around his ribs out like wires from a part that's blown out and needs replacing. Only - well, there's little point in hiding it. He leaves it discarded in the middle of the metaphorical room where he won't trip over it, but it's _there,_ in plain sight _._ It's not like most people will recognize what they're looking at.

"Okay," he says again, planting his hand in the middle of Bucky's chest and pushing back. But gently. It doesn't really matter if it's stockholm - not to Bucky, and with a moment's consideration, not to Tony either, really. Hell, he's pretty sure most of his long term friendships and the one long-term relationship he managed to have started that way.

The reserved look on Bucky's face is completely ruined by the way his pupils are blown wide open - not in a sexy way, but with the same single-minded focus that Tony might give alien tech. Or a cat might give a catnip mouse. Which. Yeah. Probably should make Tony feel small and threatened and not like he's been handed power and trust and control.

"I can handle stockholm syndrome," he says, because communication is important and Bucky came all the way to the lab with him to get that episode in the war room sorted out before Tony could tie himself into too many knots. He feels a bit strange and dizzy and powerful, like the first time the armor had closed around him to protect him from the world. "Just so long as this isn't about obligations."

"I know," Bucky says, and god: he does, doesn't he? He _trusts_ Tony. Both of his hands settle on Tony's hips and that's - nice. Very nice. His eyes are calm and clear, like it's just that _easy_ for him to set aside that dangerous lapse, to hold back. "I remember, Tony."

"Because you tend to be more proactive about your obligations than you are about your likes and dislikes," Tony points out, not looking him in the eye, "And don't try to say you're not, I have _so_ much data backing that conclusion up-"

"I'm proactive about things I can't stand to lose," he says, and that shuts Tony up. The implication is obvious, if unbelievable, because _wanting_ something or someone is easy-come easy-go. Plenty of people _want_ Tony, but it's never that hard to change their minds when they realize just want a hassle the entire package is. He's. A lot.

He's probably not seventy years of torture 'a lot,' though. That. That could be a thing. He licks his lips.

For a moment, Bucky's grip tightens, and then he releases Tony and steps sideways, easily sliding out from where he'd sandwiched himself between Tony and the wall. It's only mistakable as a retreat for a split second before he catches the look Bucky gives him out of the corner of his eye, like something wild and hungry eyeing a baited trap. The urge to jeer 'I don't bite' is hard to resist.

If Bucky can figure out how to push without backing Tony into a corner, then Tony can figure out how to pursue without chasing him off.

He takes a moment to pick his borrowed clothing straight and settle the sling pack over his shoulder again. "The lack of oversight in this mission is going to drive me crazy," he says instead. "Where's a good AI when you need one?"

"If I didn't know your AI, I'd worry you consider them to be oversight," Bucky says.

"Shut up. FRIDAY is your favorite anyway."

Bucky doesn't even try arguing with that, which is good, since Tony has on record - in the future - of just how much more interacting with her that he does compared to anyone else. _Those_ conversations were private, of course. FRIDAY did have some idea of discretion and if Tony can mostly keep his nose out of Bucky's therapy, then private conversations with AI not unlike the many he himself had with JARVIS are at least as sacrosanct.

Thinking of it that way, this whole falling for Bucky Fucking Barnes was kind of inevitable, wasn't it? He should just count himself lucky for once that Bucky seems just as deep into it as he is. Or unlucky, as the case may be. Because this is going to complicate things.

"Come on," Bucky says, and he's holding the door open like a goddamned gentleman, what the fuck. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get home."

"Yeah? Got something to look forward to now?" Tony says dryly.

Bucky gives him a look. "Yes," he says.

W- … well. "Okay," Tony says, because that's not awkward at all, what the hell is he actually supposed to _do_ with Bucky other than the obvious, and then he says, "me, too," like an idiot.

It must not sound that way to Bucky. There's a pleased hook in the corner of his mouth, something honest enough that Tony can't bristle at how smug he seems otherwise, like tricking Tony this way is clever and not the easiest maneuver in the entire history of dating.

Tony probably shouldn't be taking advantage of him this way, but he's not that good of a person. He clears his throat. "Alright, well. Mission ahoy." He steps through the door, and Bucky follows him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bucky:** my feelings for you are probably not a mental illness  
>  **Tony:** really? because we're both seven to twenty mental illnesses in a coat  
>  **Bucky:** .... all I'm hearing is that we were made for each other  
>  \--  
>  **Bucky:** [acts like the idea of dating Tony is a worthwhile activity and something to look forward to]  
>  **Tony:** [voice cracking] neat!
> 
> Bucky was so busy trying to convince Tony he _like-_ liked him he forgot the possibility that Tony might come to like him back. Although that's what he was hoping for all along (kinda. Bucky's not entirely accustomed to the idea of having his affections returned) it took him by surprise and now he has to readjust for a reality where he actually gets to have what he wants. 
> 
> At last!! Tony has gotten with the program!! It took a lot of respecting his boundaries and an impressive display of self control from Bucky, but Tony can only be expected to resist temptation so long. Although now he's convinced he's faked Bucky out and thinks that Bucky thinks he's someone he's not, because outside the glam of Tony Stark, who would actually want to date Tony? Not even Pepper could handle him. 
> 
> This is kind of a really super short update, but it wasn't meshing well with going into the actual mission itself, so have this in the mean time.
> 
> If you don't follow me on Tumblr, you missed a short future fic for the brokemachine!verse - [burn the while house down](https://justavengeit.tumblr.com/post/172723657763/burn-the-whole-house-down-brokemachineverse)

**Author's Note:**

> and then on [tumblr](https://justavengeit.tumblr.com/)


End file.
